Their Story, Untold Until Now
by faithtrustpixiedust96
Summary: How Meg and Erik first met,and how their relationship went on from ntent/characters based on both on Leroux novel and ALW movie.NOT AS BORING AS IT SOUNDS!Please read if you have interest on how Meg and Erik's pasts at the Opera House intertwined!
1. And so they meet

Early summer, 1865

11 year old Meg Giry could not sleep. Despite the vigorous ballet training session she and her fellow students had performed all day, she lay beneath the covers of her bed tossing and turning. She could tell by looking out the dormitory window that the hour was very late indeed. The sky was a deep gray-black, though still flecked with stars, signifying that it was a while after midnight. Meg sighed quietly. If she did not get to sleep soon she would not have the energy to dance come morning. She closed her eyes and tried her hardest to think about the softness of her pillow, the fatigue plaguing her muscles, and to convince herself that her eyelids were so heavy that they seemed to be glued shut. A nearby bed creaked as one of the sleeping girls rolled over in her sleep, and Meg's eyes snapped open, leaving her more alert than ever. _Damn_, she thought. _That certainly worked._ It was no use. She was simply too full of energy to settle down. There was only one thing to do; she would just have to work off said extra energy.

Meg silently slid out of bed and crept to the door, slipping out through a crack of space and closing the door behind her quick as lightning. She peeked out from behind the wall and looked both ways down the hall, listening. Satisfied that everyone was asleep, she flew down halls and staircases, all the while making as much noise as a drifting feather, until she reached the grand ballroom where a few lamps remained lit. She jumped up and down a few times, loving the chill of the marble floor on her bare feet. She took position in the middle of floor and faced the grand staircase, bowing to an imaginary audience. Righting herself, she then began to dance. She danced simply because she enjoyed it, twirling and leaping around the room not giving even the slightest thought to form or proper technique. Meg knew she was a gifted dancer. She was top of her class and a regular prodigy according to her mother and the manager of the Opera Populaire. She had danced in a few operas herself as a village child or other such extras. The only girl of her age to do so. However she had never once flaunted her abilities or shown off. She was content to dance for the sake of dancing itself she loved it that much. And so she did.

So immersed was she in her spirited whirling that she did not feel how the spot she was pirouetting directly on top of (the center of a mosaic circle a few feet in front of the grand staircase) was slightly lower than the rest of the floor. She did not notice how the spot was a perfect square, and invisible to anyone who did not already know it was there. She did notice however, when said spot lowered slightly, and the whole circle gave way beneath her, plunging her into a pit of darkness and snapping shut with an almost inaudible click. The entire movement had been so fast that Meg did not even have time to scream. She lay on the bottom of the pit, shocked, as her mind registered what had happened. She was not injured, just slightly bruised and confused. She slowly got to her feet.

The room was dark, but not completely black; she could see enough. What she did see frightened her beyond words. She seemed to be surrounded by people, and in the dim light the image seemed absolutely terrifying. She gasped and backed away, and the others copied her movements. Bewildered, she stopped. The others did the same. She waved her right hand, then her left. The same result. Cautiously, Meg walked toward one of the figures with her hand outstretched. After a few paces her hand met a cold, hard surface. Mirrors. She was in a room full of mirrors. Relieved that she was indeed not surrounded by some army of dark beings, she laughed lightly at her previous fear. Her mirth did not last long, for she was immediately met with a new fear.

How was she going to get out? Did anyone know that this room was here? This secret chamber of mirrors beneath the floor of the grand ballroom? She had never heard anyone speak of it before! Nobody would ever find her down here! She had to find her own way out. Meg began to follow the circular wall of overlapping mirrors, searching for a break in the chain; for an exit. She found none. She crawled along the floor, searching for a trapdoor of some kind. Again she found nothing. Suddenly Meg became overcome with the instinctual panic of a trapped animal. She began to speak. "Hello?" she said. "Is anyone there? Hello!" Meg cried out for help, increasing in volume each time. When she had reached the point where she had been screaming for several minutes, she sunk to her knees in defeat. No one was coming for her, for no one could hear her. Would she be forever trapped here? No one ever came into the ballroom except for when, of course, there was a ball, and who knew how long it would be until the next one! Would she die here? In this pit of darkness, alone? The prospect of such a fate caused a single tear to escape the confines of her eyelashes and trickle down her cheek.

Meg had just reached up to wipe the disgustingly feminine sign of weakness (in her opinion) away when a large hand clamped down firmly on her shoulder. Startled, she began to scream when another hand was placed over her mouth, increasing her fright. She struggled against her captor and attempted to stand, but the unseen form held her firmly from behind. "Silence, ma petite," a male voice whispered in her ear. His voice was silk; deep and melodic. "I will not harm you." Meg stopped writhing under his grasp, but only for a moment. "Mademoiselle Giry," the voice continued, clearly trying to be patient. At the sound of her name, Meg stilled altogether. "Do you wish to return to your dormitory, or not?" Completely cooperative now, Meg nodded against the hand still covering her mouth. "Very well. You will kindly be silent." Removing his hands, he released her and stood. Meg slid around to face him, and did a double take. In the dim light she could tell hardly anything about him, aside from that he was taller than she, probably taller than Maman. But the strange thing was that the most part of the right half of his face was covered by a white mask, iridescent in the darkness, giving him a slightly ghostly appearance.

However, about this she could care less. She was more confused and curious than anything. On the one hand, she was very grateful to him for saving her. On the other hand, who was he? How did he find her? Why did he where a mask? And most of all, how did he know her name? The (quite literally) mystery man offered her a hand up, which she took. She felt her small hand become wrapped in soft leather and he pulled her to her feet. "Merci beaucoup, Monsieur," she said softly as he let go. He nodded, pressed a finger to his lips in a silencing gesture, then motioned for her to follow him. She watched as he slid one of the mirrors away, revealing a concealed corridor with a single lit torch hanging from the wall. The man took it in his hand and turned towards her. Now that they were both bathed in light, she could truly see him. He was indeed a man, but not by much. He looked to be perhaps nine-teen, at the most twenty, with black hair and deep green eyes that were flecked with gold. He was dressed in black pants and a cream coloured shirt that flowed, as if it were a bit too big for him. His white mask shone lightly in the glow of the torch and looked to be made out of something hard. He was handsome.

He nodded his head to the side, indicating the corridor, and began to walk the length of it, holding out the torch to light the way. Meg followed. The hallway was of stone walls and floor, with a dirt roof. The stone was even colder on her bare feet then the ballroom floor. She loved it. They had been walking in silence for around a minute when Meg could contain her questions no longer.

"Monsieur?" she whispered from behind him. He kept walking as if he had not heard. Perhaps he hadn't. Meg ran a few steps until she was directly behind him. She reached out and touched his arm lightly, "Monsieur?" she said again. He jerked away from the touch, surprised. He stopped walking and turned around. "Please Monsiuer," Meg continued. "Who are yo-…" she began to ask, but he raised his free hand, cutting her off. "You forget, little Giry, of your agreement to be silent," he said. "But Monsieur, I do not even know your name. I cannot thank you properly," she said as softly as she could. He looked away, seemingly debating on whether or not to answer. He looked back at her and replied, "It will be enough for you to call me 'Monsieur'." Still not completely satisfied, and far from no longer being curious, Meg nodded. "Bon. Now come." They continued to walk down the endless corridor. As they turned a corner, Meg heard a dripping sound, like water. To her surprise, they came to a set of underground canals.

Meg was still bursting with questions; one especially nagging. She was frustrated with her pledge of silence. Still, unable to control herself, she decided to attempt at asking her question while remaining silent. Feeling very childish, she reached up and gently tugged his sleeve. He paused again and looked down at her. She must have looked very childish indeed at that moment, for a very small smile played at the corners of his mouth. "Yes?" Without speaking, Meg laid a hand on her chest, then pointed to him while raising her eyebrows; sufficiently asking how he knew her name while keeping her promise. His eyes grew troubled for a moment, then to her surprise, knelt down until he was at eye level with her. "I know many things, little dancer," he said. "Nearly everything that goes on in this Opera House, including you. I know you love to dance; I know that when you were very small, that kindly old cook used to sneak you a sugar cube each Sunday, as a reward for your hard work. I also know that while the other girls torment you, you never say one harsh word against them. I know that while you are like a younger sister to one of the older girls, you love most your adopted sister; the small, timid, brunette about your age who rarely speaks to anyone but you and your mother. How do I know these things, you ask. In answer, I must tell you that some questions are better left unanswered. Rest assured however, that I am no sinister creature. I am merely a secret. A secret to be kept, and I prefer it that way. Can you keep a secret, little one?"

His eyes bore in hers as she nodded, searching for any sign that she could not be trusted. He found none. Satisfied, he got to his feet again and smiled down at her, if only slightly. "Merci, little dancer. I trust you." Meg filled with pride. He trusted her. They continued down the hall. Meg was also satisfied for the moment. True, not all of her questions had been answered, and she had even gained another (how did he know all this?). But she was now sure that "Monsieur" was not a person to be feared. For that she was glad. And she _would_ do as she promised. She would not tell anyone about him, not if he did not want her to. She owed him at least that much. They had finally reached the end of the tunnel, and to the extent of the phrase. They had arrived to a complete dead end in the tunnel. She raised her eyebrows at him questioningly. He raised his own back at her, then placed the torch in a bracket on the wall and reached up to press the edge of what she now saw as a hidden panel in the roof. It fell away into his hands and he placed it on the ground.

As he was doing this, Meg stared up at the square hole with still raised eyebrows. How did he expect her to get up there? She was still contemplating this when she felt herself being swung up into the air. Before she could even speak, "Monsieur" was lifting her by the waist up to the trapdoor. He could reach so that she was through the door up to her neck, and from there she hoisted herself up with her arms. She crawled out and then turned around to peer back down the trapdoor at him, but he was already putting it back in place. _Oh no he doesn't,_ she thought. She thrust her hand in the remaining space, preventing him from closing it. He brought it down until he was looking at up at her. She smiled down at him. "Thank you, again, Monsieur," she said quietly. He nodded to her. "Until we meet again, little dancer." And with that he closed the trapdoor, and Meg was alone in front of the very staircase that would take her to the hall to her dormitory. Meg did not move for quite some time. She was thinking about Monsieur, obviously. Le mysterieux Monsieur. Oh how many questions she had! Many of which she doubted would ever be answered. Who was he? How long had he been here, at the Opera Populaire? He obviously lived here, but where? Beneath the floors amongst the catacombs? Where did he come from? Did anyone else know he was here? He had called himself a secret that he preferred to be kept, so she doubted it. Why did he wear a mask? And how did he know so much about her and the opera house? She sighed. She would not get any answers tonight at least, so it was no use keeping herself awake with them now.

Speaking of which, Meg realized that through everything that had happened, she had managed to accomplish what she had originally set out to do. She was tired now. Very tired indeed. With heavy eyelids and legs that seemed to be made of lead, Meg made her way up the stairs and down the hall to her dormitory. She slipped through the door and collapsed onto her bed, not even bothering to get under the blankets. She was asleep within seconds .

_**Sleep well, little one, **_**thought Erik (the Phantom, as he was most commonly known) as he walked back down the tunnel towards his home. His 'lair' would have been a more fitting word, but anyway… He was slightly amused at what had happened. How the child had come to be trapped down in the hall of mirrors (as he called it) he would probably never know. One could not imagine how shocked he had been when not only were there young, frightened cries for help echoing around the catacombs, but when he had followed them he had found little Meg Giry, the daughter of the kindly Madame Giry who had saved him in more ways than one all those years ago. He was also surprised when she had not been afraid of him once she realized that he was no dark spectre bent on her death, or other things of the like that form from a child's fear and imagination. He should have guessed that she would have reacted the way she did, though. He had watched her grow up, after all, if only from a distance. She was a brave girl. Not one to be inclined to crying or fainting. From what he had observed, she seemed to look down on these things. Not when others did them, for she was too compassionate for that even at such a young age, but whenever she caught herself about to. At any rate, she was probably in her bed now, safe, and so was he. She had said that she would not betray his secrecy, and he believed her. All was well, no harm had been done from him revealing himself. **_**This time,**_** he thought inwardly. But no matter. He had reached his, **_**lair**_** now, and had doused the torch in the water and hung it on the wall. Still wide awake, he went to his piano and began to play, from memory, the piece that Meg and her classmates had been dancing to earlier that very day.**


	2. And So They Meet Again

And so time went by. It had been a two weeks now, and Meg had neither seen nor heard any sign of Monsieur. She began to wonder if she had dreamt the whole thing. It was certainly a possibility. Then one night, she convinced herself and a reluctant Christine into getting in to Story Night. Each Saturday night, the older girls gathered in the largest dormitory room to exchange frightening stories. Being friends with one of the older girls, Meg thought that she could get herself and Christine in. Christine hadn't wanted to go at first, but with a little gentle coaxing, she had agreed to come along. A few days before the event however, Christine became ill and had not become well when Saturday came. She apologized to her friend, but Meg told her not to worry and to get some rest. On that Saturday night, midnight struck, and Meg ran to meet her older friend, Marie, at her room. When she arrived, Marie was waiting for her outside her door. "Finally!" she whispered, grabbing her hand (very much like an older sister, which is what she was to her), and silently running with them to the staircase that lead them to the first floor. In confusion, Meg looked up at Marie. "Why are we going downstairs, Marie?" Meg asked in a whisper. "Because, ma fille," she replied. "Story Night is going to be held on the stage tonight." "The stage?" asked Meg, incredulously. "In the grand theatre?"

"Where else, Meg?" Marie said.

"But why?" Meg asked.

"Just for something different. We do it occasionally."

"But what if someone should come by?"

"Run."

"Run?"

"Back to your room, as fast as you can." And with this piece of knowledge, Meg grew even more excited about attending. They arrived last, and quickly sat down in the circle of girls on the stage. One of the lamps had been lit, providing solely the circle with light. Once they had all settled, the first girl began her story. The story was of a man who had been hanged by his best friend, but came back to haunt his friend, and so it went on…

_**So, Story Night shall be held on the stage tonight, shall it? **_**The Phantom thought to himself as leaned over the railing of the overhang near the ceiling of the theatre. As he said before, he knew practically everything that went on in his opera house.**_** Perhaps I shall have a little fun…**_

Two more girls had shared stories when many of the others began to grow bored of being frightened. They wanted something more…romantic, it seemed. People were at a loss as to what to tell, when suddenly Marie said to one of the eldest, Claire, to tell a story about the Phantom of the Opera, and the other girls agreed and giggled in delight. "The Phantom of the Opera?" said Meg, having never heard the name before. "Who is that?" Many girls gasped. Marie turned toward her and said, "Meg! Have you never heard the tale?"

"No," she replied, shaking her head.

"Oh Claire! She has never heard of him! You must tell the story now!" Marie exclaimed, while many of the other girls nodded. Glad of all the attention she was receiving, Claire looked at Meg and began to explain.

"Our beloved opera house harbours a Phantom, dear girl." She said dear in a mocking tone, as if she were only addressing her because she had to. Which, actually, was the case. "He is a secretive man, and no one knows if he is really a man or if he's a ghost. He lives somewhere in this grand building, though no one knows where. It is said that he wears a white mask over the right side of his face, and is extremely musically gifted, and handsome, though none that I know have seen him. It is said that he can flawlessly choreograph any piece of music, and when he sings, the birds stop to listen." Claire then whispered something to the girl beside her, and everyone suddenly started to giggle and blush and nudge each other. _What in the world is wrong with them? _Meg thought for a moment. But what she was more occupied with was thoughts of Monsieur. _Is he the Phantom they are speaking of? The one who wears a white mask, who few know very much about? He must be!_ Meg was very excited now. Her mystery was beginning to be solved, if only slightly. So he _was_ real! She remained silent about the matter however, as she said she would. He had put his trust in her, after all. "Tell us a story about him, Claire!" someone shouted, causing the others to call out similar requests.

"Alright, alright, mes amies! Quite! I shall tell one!" she said, waving them down. Everyone quieted down and Claire began again. "Now, as most of you know, the Phantom likes to have the Opera Populaire's manager to keep box five," she pointed to the highest box on the right side of the theatre, "open, for his use. So he can watch the operas whenever he should wish to. But one evening, before any of us could walk, the manager failed to do so. The Phantom, of course, was angered by this. So he stood on the overhang up by the ceiling at the back there," again, she pointed. "And right in the middle of the female lead's solo, he said in a voice filled with calm rage…"

"Did I not instruct, that box five was to be kept empty," a strong, male voice rang out, from the stage rafters directly above them, finishing Claire's sentence for her. To Meg, it was a familiar voice. To everyone else, it was the voice of the Phantom that they secretly feared. The girls screamed and ran for the door. Marie tried to drag Meg to the door, but she writhed free. "Marie, go!" she ordered. Marie started to refuse, but Meg continued, "I'll douse the lamp. It could catch something on fire if we leave it on all night! Marie please! Go!" This was a lie of course. Though she would douse the lamp, she really simply wanted to see Monsieur again. She could not let him leave without proving to herself that yes, he was real. With one last squeeze of Meg's hand, Marie said "Be careful, and be quick." and she fled with the others. Meg stood there until all the others were gone, then turned back to face the rafters. She looked up into the darkness. "Monsieur?" she asked. No reply. "Monsieur?" she asked again, louder this time. She heard light footsteps coming from the air above her, travelling to the left. _No, _she thought, determined. She had to see him for herself. She ran to the back left side of the stage, where there was a spiral staircase that led to the rafters (as people were often up in them working the backdrops and lights). It was nearly pitch black, but she ran up the stairs and stepped nimbly onto one of the many hanging platforms, then ran forward in the direction of the footsteps. They were not slowing, and they continued to move away from her.

"Monsieur!" she cried. The footsteps did not slow nor stop.

"Monsieur! Monsieur, wait! Please!"

**That voice. The voice was familiar to him, but he had not seen who had begun to follow him, and he could not remember how he recognized their voice. He had probably just heard her before at one of their other Story Nights. But why was she following him, the opera ghost, when all the others had fled? This would not do at all. He had to remain mysterious, untouchable to remain living here. He had to be feared. It had even been a risk to rescue Madame Giry's little daughter, though he had done so anyway…wait. Was it her voice that he was hearing? Was it she who was following him? No, it could not be. Little Giry was but a child, and these "Story Nights" were exclusively for the elder girls in their mid to late teens. Wait. Elder girls…That was it. The reason this girl was following him. He had heard from previous gatherings on the stage the way that they sometimes talked of him. They thought him to be a dark, mysterious, handsome lover. Mentally morphed him into a fantasy. He mentally snorted. Oh yes, there is nothing more alluring then a killer. He was disgusted. How foolish they were. This particular young lady was probably thinking herself brave to finally pursue him; thinking that she would have quite the tale to tell her companions when she returned. He would give her just that, though probably not quite the sort of tale she had anticipated. He would make it so that she made sure no one would dare approach him again…**

"Monsieur!" Meg called for the fifth time, beginning to sound desperate against her will. To her surprise (and relief), this time the footsteps stopped. She exhaled a long sigh of relief and walked forward, more slowly this time.

**He could vaguely see her figure now, a mere shadow slightly blacker than the rest of the dark. **_**She's oddly small,**_** he thought. Then again, a few very wonderful dancers were rather short in stature. This would be easy.**

It was so dark up in the hanging platforms that she could not see her hand in front of her face, and although the "Phantom" had stopped moving, she still had to find him. She was walking very slowly now. "Monsieur?" she asked, quietly. Silence. She asked for him again. The silence was deafening, and not entirely calming. She was beginning to become afraid, though she was not very sure why. Suddenly, the platform swung violently to the left. Gasping, she fell forward onto her stomach, clutching the ropes on the side for dear life. The platform continued to swing, each pitch growing higher until to her horror, Meg found herself to be slipping off through a space in between the ropes. She gasped loudly and reached out her other hand to get another grip on the ropes, only to find that the movement made her slide farther off.

She cried out in fear, literally hanging from the platform by her right hand now. Meg was terrified. If she fell from this height she would surely perish. In one last attempt to save herself, she summoned all her strength and swung her left leg up so that her bare foot was on top of the wood that had by now ceased swinging. In her training to be a ballerina, her legs had become quite strong (_thank you God, _she said in her mind), and she was able to get the rest of her leg atop of the platform. From there she could hoist herself back on. She was in the process of doing so when she thought, _what in the world caused that?_

Almost the instant this thought came into her mind, she was given an answer in the form of a large hand wrapping itself around her throat and lifting her up by the neck. Once she was back on the platform he swung her around so that her back was to his chest and dragged her (one hand holding her arms crossed around her stomach to minimize the effect of her struggling, the other over her mouth to quite her screams) backward until they reached the other side of the platforms and were standing on the second staircase. How her unknown captor managed to do all this in one, fluid motion in the pitch dark Meg could only guess.

At the moment there were other things on her mind, primarily escape. She kicked out and writhed and screamed into his hand, but he was strong and held firm. "So, Mademoiselle," the man whispered in her ear, his voice beautiful even in threatening. "You dare to approach the opera ghost?" That voice! It was Monsieur! The 'Phantom'! Immediately Meg ceased moving, trying to give him a mute sign that she knew who he was, that she did not mean him any harm, anything! He must have misinterpreted it for a sign of submission, for he only tightened his grasp. "You dare to follow a demon, do you? The Phantom of the Opera Populaire?" Meg shook her head as much as she was able to with his hand still over her mouth. "No, you say? Then why, Mademoiselle, do you follow me into the dark like a cat stalking a mouse? I assure you, that I can inflict much more harm than a mouse. Do you realize what could happen to you, alone, following a ghost?" With this last statement his hand moved from her mouth and down to her neck, where it began to tighten uncomfortably. She gasped, but used the opportunity to finally speak.

"Monsieur!" she gasped, weakly. "Please, it is me! Meg! I didn't mean any har-…" her voice broke off on this last word, having no more air in her lungs with which to speak. Thankfully, she had said enough.

**His grip fell away from her throat and she inhaled sharply. He spun her to face him. "Mademoiselle Giry?" He could not see her face, but her form nodded. He cursed under his breath before kneeling to her eye level again. "Forgive me, Mademoiselle. I did not know it was you. My behaviour was intolerable." He disgusted himself. He had assaulted a **_**child**_**. A child who had meant him no harm. True he hadn't intended to kill her or injure her, simply to frighten her, to make sure that the others would go on fearing him. Truer still, he hadn't known she was a child; he hadn't known who she was. What **_**was**_** she doing here, anyway? Suddenly his self loathing was replaced by rage. He glared at her with a fury that she could not see. Didn't she realized what could've happened? Nothing too terrible on his part, but running across the hanging platforms in the pitch black? She could have fallen! And she couldn't have possibly been sure that it really **_**was**_** him! From how high he had been? Surely not! What if it hadn't been him? She could've been killed or… Erik shuddered…worse! This was the daughter of Madame Giry, the woman who had practically raised him! He could never repay the debt he had to her, and he did not mind! He loved Madame Giry very much. Not in a lover's way, but a son to a mother way, but still very much! Therefore this little dancer, this little Marguerite Giry, was from now on his priority as well. He would always keep her safe. Besides, he was growing fond of her. He had never spoken to her until a few weeks ago, but he had helped her mother take care of her as a baby. She had been a happy thing even then. Erik had been nine when Meg was born. He watched over when her mother taught her dance classes. He sung her to sleep. It was true; even then he had been talented. He doubted that she knew of this. He sighed, thinking of Richard, Marguerite's father. He had died of scarlet fever when Meg was six. There never was a kinder man. But right now it did not matter. He had to get her back to her room or else…complications… would arise. **

**Without another word he weaved an arm around her waist and held her tightly. He grabbed a rope in his other hand and jumped, sliding down it to the stage below. They landed with a muffled thud, and Erik released his hold on Meg. Expecting her took look up at him in anger for pitching them into the air like that, he was surprised to find her laughing quietly and looking up at where they had fallen from. She turned her face back to him and said, "That was wonderful!" Erik snorted and picked up the lamp, then went to the front of the stage. Jumping off, he turned to help her down the high drop only to find that she had ran forward and leapt over his head. He turned to watch her quite literally fly through the air and land in a crouch in the aisle. Perkily, she bounced up and dusted off her hands, smiling at him. His eyes wide with shock, he laughed. **

The first time Meg had ever really seen him smile, or really laugh. It was nice. Very warm. "Marguerite," he said, shaking his head. "You bare an uncanny resemblance to a bird, just now." Meg smiled.

"Thank you, Monsieur. One of my deepest desires has always been to fly," she replied. "One of the reasons I love ballet so is because when I am dancing, leaping and spinning it feels like I am."

"Indeed it does, Marguerite. Now, come. We must get you back. I believe it is, to the very extent of the phrase, past your bedtime." She smiled again. She was glad to have him as a friend now, instead of a maddening might-be-dream. She did forgive him for the, er, attack moments ago, whether he realized it or not. It had not been his fault. He couldn't see her; all he knew was that he was being followed, and it had probably frightened him.

"Monsieur?" she asked, following behind him up the stairs to the rear of the theatre. "Why do you call me Marguerite as Maman does? Everyone else calls me Meg."

"It is your true name, is it not? Besides, I favour it. It is a lovely name." he answered as they continued to walk.

"Thank you, Monsieur. What am I to call you now, then? Monsieur? Phantom? "

"Whichever you wish. I will answer to either," he replied, after hesitating for a moment. Meg wondered why.

Meg thought for a moment. "How does Monsieur Phantom suit you?" she asked, her French accent lacing 'Phantom'. "Just Monsieur, for a nickname."

He paused for a moment, contemplating. "I believe it suits me well, Marguerite."

"Bon. Monsieur Phantom it is. Monsieur Phantom?" she asked.

"Oui, little Giry?"

"Nothing, Monsieur. Just testing the name." He laughed quietly.

They had come to the back wall. Meg was about turned to walk to the door when Monsieur Phantom spoke. "This way, little Giry," he said, pressing a spot on the wall. One of the wood panels slid to the side, revealing yet another secret hall that the opera house apparently contained. It was not very wide; just enough space for someone of the phantom's size to walk through.

They walked through, the panel sliding back into place with a wooden click. It was pitch black. You think that by now Meg's eyes would've adjusted to the dark, but she still stumbled and nearly fell, but the Phantom caught her by the arm before she could hit the floor. "Thank you," she murmured. Meg blinked as a sudden light filled the hall. He had lit a torch that she had not noticed before, and was now carrying it in front of them. "How many hidden passages are there, Monsieur?" she asked.

"There are many, Marguerite, though I have come to know them all."

"Do they go all over the opera house?"

"Most places, yes."

Meg was silent for a moment, before asking shyly, "Even to your home?"

Now he was silent for a moment. Eventually he said, "Yes, even there." He glanced at her over his shoulder out of the corner of his eye. "I see what you are asking, Marguerite, and there is no need to blush so. I live below the opera house, amid the catacombs. There is a cavern there that I have made quite comfortable."

Well. Good then. He did not find her bold, as Maman would have. She felt much more at ease now, though she would not push him. She was beginning to sense how secretive he was, and she would respect that. She would not ask too many questions. They had arrived at the end of the hall, and as she guessed he would, the phantom pressed yet another section of the wall and yet another panel sprang back. He pressed his back against the wall and gestured for her to walk through. Meg lithely side-stepped out the door to find that she was directly in front of the door to her room. She shook her head, amazed, and then turned back to face Monsieur Phantom. "Goodnight, Monsieur Phantom."

"Goodnight, Mademoiselle Giry. Sleep well."

Pulling out the sides of her thin nightgown, Meg performed an awkward curtsey. He laughed once, before returning the gesture in a short bow. She was about to turn away when he stopped her. "Remember, Marguerite." Meg looked at him expectantly. H e raised a finger to his lips, reminding her of the double meaning to her previous promise. Silence. She could keep a secret. Meg smiled, making the same gesture. He nodded in response. Meg opened her door quietly and disappeared inside, peeking her head out to wave one last time before closing it.

**Erik closed the panel, a small smile once again playing at the corners of his mouth. A sweet child. He was indeed growing fond of her. He turned back to once again make the journey down to his lair, his fingers itching to run over the keys of his piano.**


	3. Dance For Me

**Erik closed the panel, a small smile once again playing at the corners of his mouth. A sweet child. He was indeed growing fond of her. He turned back to once again make the journey down to his lair, his fingers itching to run over the keys of his piano.**

**He had been composing for some time now, working on a piece that would be fit to accompany a battle scene. He was very restless this night, and he poured all of his energy into his music, attacking the piano keys with violent urgency. Still, the need to move around never left him. **_**Blast it,**_** he thought, stopping abruptly. He opened the gold pocket watch sitting on the small table to his side. It was half past two in the morning. Snapping the watch shut and shoving it in his pants pocket, he sighed in exasperation. He rose from the piano bench and went to his bedroom, removing his jacket and shirt and leaving them on a nearby chair, took the watch out of his pocket and placed it on the bedside table. He then fell into his beautiful swan bed, shut his eyes and went to sleep. Well, he tried to go to sleep. He kept his eyes shut, and did not allow himself to open them for a long time; trying in earnest to let sleep take him, but it would not come. **_**Blast it ALL, **_**he thought, snapping into a sitting position angrily. He grabbed his watch and flicked it open, glaring at it. Quarter past three, it now read. He had been lying there for forty-five minutes, and still could not sleep. Shoving the watch in his pocket again, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. He threw on his shirt, but left the jacket where it was. He might as well go and check on his little bird. **

**He passed through various tunnels and passages, eventually reaching the servant's staircase the led to the upper most floor of the opera house. There was a room coincidentally above Meg's that was used for storage. That was where he was heading. When he reached the room, he slid away a part of a board in the wall, noiselessly. He looked out so that he was looking down from the far inner wall of her room, high up near the ceiling. His searching eyes flew over the room, glancing briefly at each girl, finally resting on the petite blond he sought. She was lying with her face towards him, breathing slowly in and out. She was three beds away from him, directly beneath a window. The moonlight fell over her, paling her already pale skin, making her blond hair take a silver glow. She looked so peaceful. Satisfied, he was about to slide the board back when she shot up into a sitting position. She huffed in frustration, bringing her pillow to her lap and punching it repeatedly, fluffing it. She threw it back behind her head and fell back down, shutting her eyes tightly. After a few moments she sat up again and looked at the clock by the door. Seeing what a late hour it was, she sighed and hugged her knees to her chest, laying her chin upon them sadly. She could not sleep either, it seemed.**

**Looking closer, Erik could see dark circles beginning to appear under her eyes. She looked painfully tired, and her frown accentuated the look. Feeling pity for her, he knew what he wanted to do. One of his talents was ventriloquism, and at this moment he was glad for it. He threw his voice so that it sounded as if it was coming from beneath the floor, he began to sing. **

_**Sleep sweetly, child, rest your head.**_

_**And rest your tired eyes.**_

_**Know you're safe, for I'll stand guard**_

_**Until the sun doth rise. **_

_**Never fear, for I'm always there**_

_**In everything you do.**_

_**I'll watch you, guide you, carry you,**_

_**Whenever you should need me to.**_

_**Never fear, for I'll always be there.**_

_**Always there for you.**_

**It was the lullaby he had wrote for her when Madame Giry had first left her in his care as a baby. He had written it, and sang it too her every day; it was the only thing that got her to sleep. True, the lyrics were something to be desired when compared to the things he wrote nowadays, but it was a child's song in both ways. Written by a child and intended for a child's ears. With the first few sentences her head snapped up. Her eyes flashed in recognition, and Erik knew that she remembered the song, but not how she knew it. He began the second verse, and she slowly lowered herself until she was lying down again. She listened wide eyed for a bit, but by the time he had finished the third verse, her eyelids had fallen, and her breathing was deep and slow. She had fallen asleep. He sang the last two lines.**

_**Never fear, for I'll always be there.**_

_**Always there for you.**_

**When he finished, he waited a few moments to see if she was truly asleep. She did not stir, so he took that as his answer. Erik nearly smiled. It was as if he had travelled back to the time of his ten year old self and the nearly one year old Marguerite. He was pleased with himself. So far he was upholding his oath of taking care of her. Suddenly feeling like he could sleep for years, Erik slid the board back in place and went home.**

The next morning Meg awoke feeling well-rested. _Why is that?_ She thought. _You couldn't sleep until…_Memory washed over her like an ocean wave. That song. She had been awake up into the wee hours of the morning; she couldn't sleep. Then she had heard the Phantom singing, his voice rising up from beneath the opera house. She heard him singing what she assumed was a lullaby, and she had known it. After he had sung the first few lines, she began to think of the next lines before he sung them, and she was correct each time. How she knew the song she could not say, but it was somehow familiar anyway. It had put her to sleep. At any rate, she was glad he had sung it, else she probably would not have been able to get out of bed today. She sat up and stretched her arms as high as they would go, feeling happy. She was glad of her new friend. Meg made her bed, but did not go with the others for breakfast. She did not feel hungry this morning. This was not unusual behaviour for her however, for she did this occasionally. Instead she washed, brushed her hair and tied the front sections back with a ribbon so they would not get in her eyes, changed into her leotard and, grabbing her ballet slippers as she went out the door, went straight to the stage in the theatre.

Meg rhythmically did the stretches that had become second nature for her to do before practising, then began to dance through her routine for the next opera. They were performing an adapted work of Shakespeare, and Meg had earned the spot of a fairy. Once again, the only child in the opera. She flitted en point from here to there, made four leaps across the stage, pirouetting as she landed each time. Caught up in her movements, Meg began to dance faster than was necessary. She spun and leaped and ran faster and faster, loving the feel of the air rushing against her with her beloved illusion of flying, until if someone had been watching her, all they would've see was a blur of satin, pale skin and blond hair. Coincidently, someone had been watching. A certain masked someone leaning on the ropes of the hanging platforms amidst the curtains and lights above, had been watching the entire performance with what from below would have seemed like a passive expression; but if you had been standing next to this certain someone, you would have seen the sheer delight in their eyes, having never seen someone love an art so much as the small, graceful child below them.

Once again, time passed uneventfully. It had been a week and a half since Meg had last seen Monsieur Phantom, and in childhood's sense of attachment she had begun to miss him. She was not exceedingly sad however, for she had become immersed in her dancing. As well as the everyday ballet classes she attended, the time had now come again for her to join in the opera rehearsals. With opening night coming closer and closer, these rehearsals happened each day. Meg had learned her solo routine perfectly a few days back. Now it was simply a matter of continuing this perfection through each rehearsal until the fateful opening night.

Rehearsal's went smoothly; with every actor knowing their lines and songs with perfect pitch and volume, every dancer (Meg included) flowing effortlessly across the stage with beautiful elegance. By the time of the last dress rehearsal, everyone was allowed to leave a half an hour early as a reward for their hard work. This announcement was greeted by shouts of joy and sighs of relief as each cast member shed their costumes and donned their normal attire. Meg, being the only child, changed in a corner in the back of the women's dressing room. Being the only child in an opera, while being a great honour, it also had its disadvantages. She rarely had anyone to talk to during rehearsal breaks, so she was nearly always somewhat alone and if she did make a mistake (which was rare) some of the divas in the production would rant on how she was too young to truly take part in their art. These comments Meg hated the most. She could perform as well as any one of the dancers twice her age, and she loved as much (if not more) than they did. She did not want to steal the spotlight, nor did she care about fame as many of the elder dancers did. She danced because it was something that she loved dearly, aside of her mother, her late father, Christine, Marie and others who were close to her. Every time she danced, she felt truly free; she had not been lying when she said it felt like she was flying. It was wonderful.

At this moment however, Meg was feeling nervous. She always got butterflies in her stomach before a performance, but they were more of the excited sort. These formidable insects seemed determined to make her legs give out from under her. She had never experienced them before, and it made her even more nervous. Why was she afraid? She never missed a step, never threw a landing at any point in time during a practice for four days! She could do her routine in her sleep! So why was she afraid? Meg hung up her costume on its hook and walked out onto the now empty stage. She gazed up at the intricate artwork on the ceiling, thinking. It's not as if the audience was any bigger, as if there was different people she was performing for. The only people she knew who would be watching would be the cast, the manager, Maman, Monsie-… With that thought, Meg heard a voice pounding through her. _"Did I not instruct, that box 5 was to be kept empty." _Meg snapped her head to the side, looking up at the closest box on the right side. The Phantom! That was it! From what Claire had said, he always watched the operas, she had just not known he was there. _He can flawlessly choreograph any piece of music…_ That must be it! She was nervous because _he_ would be watching, and from what Claire had also said, he was practically a professional! There, that was it then. For some reason, she subconsciously wanted to please him; to do well! Well, if that was all! _I need not worry!_ she told herself. She had but one solo routine throughout the entire opera! _He won't even notice my performance!_ She told herself this. She tried to convince herself out of her fear. It did not work, unfortunately.

**She was standing on the stage, her eyes locked on box 5. The Phantom was standing on the rear overhang again, and even from this distance he could see her chest rising and falling rapidly. **_**She must be very nervous indeed,**_** he thought, frowning. She had no reason to be. He had watched every opera the cast had put on, and Meg had been in each one since she was…nine, he supposed. She was better than most of the dancers twice, three times her age. This performance was no different. She had her routine perfect down to the last detail. "You look so unsettled, Marguerite," he called, thinking safe to speak seeing as the others had long since gone. She jumped visibly, her face snapping forward. She looked up, finding him.**

"**Good evening Monsieur. I'm sorry; I did not quite hear what you said."**

"**You look nervous, Marguerite."**

"**Do I, Monsieur?" she asked, weakly.**

"**Yes, you do."**

**She did not speak for a moment. "Nerves, I suppose, Monsieur Phantom," she replied, looking at the floor.**

"**Nerves, Marguerite? What are you nervous about?"**

**She still did not look at him, but mumbled something incoherently. **

"**I beg your pardon, Madmoiselle?"**

"**My dance, sir," she said, just audibly.**

"**Your dance, little Giry?" he asked. She nodded. He laughed. She looked up at him, a mixture of surprise and hurt plaguing her face. "Of all the things to worry about!" he continued. "Little one, your cast mates have more cause to be weary of errors than you do."**

**She suddenly smiled. "Do you mean that, Monsieur? Truly?"**

**He hesitated, placing his chin on top of his fist in mock pensiveness. "Well, Marguerite," he began. Her smile faltered; she did not see that he was teasing her. "There is only one way to be sure, isn't there?" She looked at him uncomprehendingly. "Dance for me." Her eyes widened.**

"**Right now?" she asked, incredulous.**

"**Now would be more convenient than later." She hesitated, looking from him and back to the floor rhythmically. "Go on," he coaxed. "Put your costume back on. I will wait." She nodded and fled backstage. He relaxed his posture and leaned over the railing, waiting. He had watched every rehearsal of course, including tonight's, but he wished to see her without the distractions of others. After a few minutes he heard her returning, and he stood straight again. She poked her head around the curtain, looking up at him. He waved his hand towards himself, beckoning to her to come forward. She emerged, clad in a delicate blue-white tutu made to look like sewn-together flower petals and glittering wings the colour of blue ice. It was a beautiful garment. She stood for a moment, ever hesitant. "Marguerite…"**

_Dear God,_ Meg thought as she stood there before the Phantom, him looking at her expectantly. And she thought she was nervous before because he was going to be in the audience. And her she was, about to give him a private performance. _Why do I agree so easily?_ She took a deep breath, and without a word began to dance (again). She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye while she danced, but his face held no expression. She finished in center stage, her last step resembling a deep sweeping curtsey. When she righted herself, she looked back up at him. His brows were knit together, and his mouth was set in a deep frown. He had not liked it. What had she done wrong? Had she forgotten part of the routine? Did she not put enough passion in her movements? Meg felt the backs of her eyes begin to sting. _What is wrong with you?_ She thought to herself, bowing her head. _Don't you dare cry. Stop it now. _But she could already feel drops beginning to form in the corners of her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said before running back to the dressing room.

"**I'm sorry," she said before running backstage. What? She was sorry? Whatever for? And where was she going? "Marguerite!" he called. She did not turn back. **_**Blast,**_** he thought, stepping through the door and running down the stairs. **_**Why had she fled like that?**_** He reached the stage and went back to the ladies dressing room. He stood at the door and listened. He could hear her breathing from behind the door, so he leaned against the wall and waited.**

In the dressing room, Meg had quickly changed back into her casual dress and was trying to compose herself. He hadn't liked it. He had frowned at it. Meg kicked the wall in frustration. _What_ had she done wrong? She was sure she hadn't forgotten a step, she had landed al her jumps, didn't fall to the side as she spun….what was it that had made her dancing so terrible? Meg sighed and breathed in deeply. It didn't even matter. She would have to perform tomorrow night, even if her performance turned out to be less than mediocre. Meg sighed again, softer this time, and stepped out the door. Someone immediately caught her by the arm. Meg was not even startled this time. She did not even look up. "Yes, Monsieur Phantom?"

"What was the meaning of that?" he demanded. _Was I really that terrible?_

"I'm so sorry Monsieur, if I was terrible. I tried, Monsieur; really I did!" Meg could feel tears starting afresh. She hung her head, letting her now loose hair hide her face in case a salty drop slipped past the confines of her lashes. For a moment, neither made a sound. Then Meg felt familiar soft leather take hold of her chin, pulling her face up. She complied, letting it lead her eyes up to meet his, a tear track glistening on the side of her face.

"Marguerite, _why _are you crying?" he asked, softly.

Meg blushed and tried to put her face back down, but his hand held firm. She closed her eyes, trying to stop anymore tears from coming. "I am sorry, Monsieur. I was terrible. I don't know what I did wrong, but tell me, and I can fix it before the opera tomorrow night….." Once again, neither said anything. She opened her eyes, but kept them far away from his. She instead focused on training her eyes to see each individual thread on his shirt. "Marguerite," he said in a commanding voice. "Look at me when I speak to you." Slowly, Meg let her eyes reluctantly travel up to his.

"Marguerite, you were far from terrible. You, child, are one of the best dancers I have ever seen. Whatever gave you the idea that you did poorly?"

Meg blinked in confusion, shocked at the compliment he had just given her. "Well, you were just frowning so, Monsieur, and I thought…" Meg let her sentence trail off.

"Ma petite, I was frowning not of disapproval, but of utter disbelief."

"Why?"

"Each time you perform you amaze me. Not only have you such an excess of raw talent, but you have moulded that talent, completely of your own accord, into art. And what is more, you have so much joy in you when you dance, that it makes you nearly glow while you perform. It is something to be proud of, Marguerite. Pure beauty."

Meg stood, dumbfounded. Her tears had long since ceased. She could not believe what he had just told her. She was very flattered, of course, but dumbfounded just the same. "Thank you," she whispered. He nodded, releasing her. "Never forget what I have told you just now, Marguerite. Let it be your confidence. Know always that you have no reason to be afraid of failing, for you will only fail if you cease to enjoy what you do. And I highly doubt that will ever happen." Amazed, Meg nodded.

"Bon. Now, ma chere, go to dinner. And good luck on your performance tomorrow night, though you will not need it. I will be watching."

"Has box 5 been kept empty?" she asked, her voice serious, eyes smiling.

He smiled his small smile. "Indeed it has, Marguerite."

Meg nodded gravely, then smiled. "Goodnight, Monsieur, and thank you."

"I have done nothing worth thanking, little Giry, but you are welcome."

Meg then took her leave. When she reached the door she turned to wave, but he was gone. _Ghost, _she teased inwardly. How he managed to do things like that she would never know. The Phantom of the opera and Opera Ghost were very fitting names indeed.

That night Meg lay awake in bed for the seemingly hundredth time. She was no longer nervous about the opera tomorrow. It was just that she had a hard time getting to sleep for some weeks now. It had started the night that she had first met the phantom. However it had been getting better. For the past eleven days, ever since the first night she had heard him sing, at some point during the night the Phantom would sing the exact same song from the first time she heard him. That beautiful lullaby that she recognized, but could not remember how. Each time he sang it she was asleep before he finished. That was what she was waiting for at this moment; for him to sing the lullaby. Sure enough, a few minutes later she heard his voice rising up through the floor. _"Sleep sweetly, child, rest your head. And rest your tired eyes…" _Meg snuggled under the blankets and shut her eyes, falling asleep in minutes.

_My dear readers,_

_Meg has talent, yes? And Erik appreciates it, no? I believe I see a friendship beginning to form between these two. But will her confidence hold? Will her performance be a triumph or a disaster? My dear readers, something is in store for Meg tomorrow…_

_Sincerely,_

_Pixie_


	4. The Cast Party and What Followed

The next morning, Meg awoke long before the others. She washed and dressed and went down to the kitchen to grab a slice of toast from the stovetop, smiling sheepishly at the cook, who smiled back and waved her away. "Good luck," she said as Meg left. Meg was feeling very full of excitement today. The morning and afternoon would be filled with as many dress rehearsals as there was time for, and the few hours before the opening night performance would be spent doing last minute prepping, doing the cats make up and costumes and such. There was always so much hustle and bustle on opening night, and Meg often enjoyed it. She ate her toast hungrily and ran to the auditorium. It was very early indeed; not even the stage hands were there. Meg had a feeling that she was not alone though. Tonight was going to be, of course, the opening night of the _Phantom's_ opera (she had recently found out that He wrote all the operas for the manager, which he admired him for. They were brilliant pieces of work). She had a feeling that he would be with them all day making sure that everything went according to plan. It was, after all, HIS opera.

Meg dusted crumbs off her hands and smiled wryly. She pretended to do a random pirouette as she walked, but she used it as an excuse to glance at the overhang at the back. Sure enough, he was there. She could just see him in the shadows. She stopped spinning and faced him. Smiling wryly, she did a little wave at him, as if to say, 'I see you!'. After a moment, she saw a shadowy limb extend past the darkness and return a small wave. Meg smiled again, and then went backstage to change into her costume.

Meg loved her fairy costume; it was quite possibly the most beautiful costume she had ever worn, even seen. With its delicate tutu made to look like blue and white flower petals and glittering wings the colour of blue ice, it was truly magical. She had silk ballet slippers the same colour as her wings to match, and she was convinced that they added height to her leaps, grace to her spins. The entire garment was magical. She felt like a real fairy when she put it on. She felt even more as if she were flying. She changed quickly and was back onstage just as some of the stage hands began to arrive. A few called out greetings of good morning to her, which she happily returned.

They disappeared backstage and Meg began to rehearse her routine again and again. To her surprise, there was suddenly a spotlight trained on her. Meg stopped and looked up, one of the younger stage hands, a friend of Meg's by the name of Thomas, had lit the spotlight and was steering it to follow her wherever she moved. Meg smiled and waved. He waved back, shook his shaggy brown hair out of his eyes and motioned for her to continue. She curtsied and complied. She danced in the white glow of the spotlight for some time, then Thomas yelled that he had to get back to work, though he enjoyed watching. She thanked him for the light, and he waved and disappeared again. Meg smiled and rehearsed some more. It was true, she could do it in her sleep now, so now it was just for enjoyment.

People were beginning to file in now, breakfast having finished apparently. Meg shouted greetings while dancing, and was soon joined by the entire cast, and the real dress rehearsal began.

Rehearsals went smoothly. Everyone played their part perfectly, and the prima donna was actually very good. With breaks in between, they had time for two and a half full rehearsals before dinner. They all changed and ate, then rested awhile before returning to dress in their costumes once more and let themselves be coated in makeup. Meg was delighted to find that she had been arranged at the last minute to have every inch of her exposed skin dusted with white glitter, making her sparkle with every moved she made. It was a magical affect. Meg thought of how the phantom told her she glowed when she danced. Well, she definitely would now! Meg could hardly contain her excitement. She twirled on the spot, causing those around her to laugh warmly. She suddenly saw Christine off to the side in her night gown, waving to her. Meg ran over to her and the girls embraced.

"Oh Meg, you look beautiful!" Christine gushed. "Just like a real fairy!"

"So do you!" Meg laughed, Christine looked down at herself and laughed as well, seeing as some of Meg's glitter had rubbed onto her. "Oh Meg!" Christine happily clapped once. "Aunty Nettie said I could watch the opera from the side curtains tonight! I'm going to watch you dance!" she squealed. Aunty Nettie is what Madame Giry had Christine call her ever since she had adopted her officially.

"Christine! Really?" Normally the younger girls were supposed to be in bed before the opera started.

"Yes!" Christine exclaimed, and the two hugged again, giggling when Christine became even more covered with glitter. Suddenly Madame Giry came rushing over.

"Girls! The opera is about to start! Christine, go claim a spot in the side curtains; somewhere where you can see. And Marguerite! Your glitter is nearly gone! Go back and tell the makeup artists to give you another coat. No more hugging until after the show!" She patted Christine in the directions of the side stages. Christine waved one more time and then disappeared into the crimson folds of the side curtains. Madame Giry turned and smiled down at her daughter. "Oh Marguerite; I am so very proud of you." Meg smiled back and hugged her mother. "Thank you, Maman."

"You are welcome, dear girl. Now go! You must have the others dust you with more fairy dust! Tonight, you fly." Madame Giry's eyes twinkled. She somehow knew of Meg's secret desire for flight, and how she felt as if she did when she danced, even though Meg had never told her. Meg smiled. She waved goodbye and ran back to find Nellie to get a new dusting of glitter.

Meg was sure she hadn't been as happy as she was at this very moment since she had found out that her best friend had been officially made her sister. The opera had just ended, and the cast was backstage rushing about and yelling happily and embracing friends. Meg was in the process of being congratulated by the entire cast, and holding on tightly to a Christine who had not let go of her since she had found her in the crowd. It had been their best opening night in Meg's lifetime. Every seat had been filled, and the audience had been captured by the magical tale that had been played out before them. The prima donna had been wonderful, the chorus line flawless in their steps, and Meg had been ecstatic to find that her dance solo had brought people to their feet. She was so filled with joy she thought she might quiet literally float up off the ground; her fairy wings carrying herself and Christine up into the night sky to dance among the stars.

Greater still, her mother had said that she and Christine could attend the cast party for the first time as a reward for their efforts; Christine's dedication to dance class and Meg's performance! The girls squealed in delight, and Madame Giry told them to go change into their best dresses. Christine waited for Meg as she removed her costume and slipped into her nightgown in the dressing room, and together they ran to their room, slipping in silently and running to their dressers, looking for their best. Christine's a long sleeved dress of pink silk with a beaded line traveling around her waist; Meg's was the same, but a deep midnight blue. Christine found hers and was about to take off her nightgown when she heard Meg gasp.

"What's wrong?" Christine whispered from across the room.

"Nothing," Meg whispered back. "I just accidentally shut my finger in the drawer, that's all." This was a lie. Now, Meg told her best friend, her adopted sister everything, but this secret she had just discovered was not hers to share. In her second drawer, sitting on top of her best dress, was a red rose, tied with a black silk ribbon. Around one of the loops of the bow was tied a small cloth bag. When Meg reached inside, she first pulled out a very small note. She unfolded it, and it read,

_**Brava, ma petite oiseau. Yours was one of the most dazzling performances I've seen in years, and I do believe the audience agreed. You should be proud. Please accept this token of my gratitude for dancing my opera so well, and in honour of your triumph this evening. I thank you, and wish you un bon nuit. **_

_**O.G**_

Meg was shocked, but her fingers mechanically reached into the small bag once more to find something cold and hard. She looked behind her. Christine had apparently gone to the bathroom. Meg pulled out the object and gasped. It was a necklace. A simple, delicate silver chain, and hanging from it, beautifully hand-carved out of some kind of wood, was a small dove, its wings spread in flight. It was simple, but at the same time exquisite. It looked like he had carved the dove himself. Meg loved it. She immediately put it on, placing the dove beneath the cloth of her top so no one would see. She felt like she could not accept it, but she doubted he would let her refuse. It was so kind of him! She had to thank him, and now. But how? She didn't know where to find him…But she _did_ know how to find him! And so mischievous Meg hatched a plan.

Meg and Christine arrived at the smaller ballroom where the cast parties were always held. Meg had swept up Christine's hair in an elegant (if slightly too mature, but it was a special occasion) fashion, and Christine had helped Meg put on her dress in such manner that she did not lose any of her glitter (with Meg expertly keeping the necklace out of sight the whole time, it now being hidden under the neckline of her dress). They were going mad with excitement. They stepped through the double doors, and a wondrous sight met their eyes. Two men were standing on the stairs at the far wall, playing lively tunes on fiddles, and everyone in the cast and crew was drinking glasses of some adult beverage, and talking and laughing, and some had paired up and were dancing spiritedly around the room in time with the fiddles; no specific dance, just twirling and running and having a grand time. They could not find Madame Giry, but they were content to just talk and wander about the room. They were constantly swarmed at first by adult members of the cast who were not quite…level headed (as a result of whatever they were drinking, probably), who kept gushing over Meg's dance, how adorable they both were in their "little party dresses" and how glad they were that they had joined the party.

Eventually they found a quite seat in the corner with Thomas. Meg gave Thomas a look and looked from Christine and back to him. He nodded. They sat down and Thomas started a conversation. He paid special attention to Christine, as Meg had implied for him to do, and to Meg's relief she became at ease very quickly, soon talking freely with Thomas. This was good; this was part of Meg's plan. Meg needed to make sure Christine was happy and safe before she left to go find Monsieur Phantom. After a half an hour, Meg excused herself to the bathroom, giving Thomas another look from him to Christine and back, this one saying 'look after her'. Again Thomas nodded without the notice of Christine, and again began taking animatedly with her. Satisfied that her sister was in good hands, Meg walked away in the direction of the restroom until she was sure she was hidden by the crowd. Meg then turned sharply to the left, heading for the exit. When she was sure no one was looking, she slid out the door.

Meg knew where she was headed, and she thought over her plan as she ran silently to the grand ballroom. She intended to purposefully fall into the pit of mirrors again, slide away the mirror that led to the passageway, and follow that hall down to the catacombs. She would then simply walk around, calling his name until she found the tunnel that led to his home or until he found her. Foolproof, thought she. She didn't know, of course, what a labyrinth the catacombs really were. Meg had reached the ballroom. She went to the spot she had fallen through all those nights ago and crawled about, feeling for any indentation. When she found it, she was just about to push down on it with all her strength when she stopped short. Something occurred to her. She would need light down there. She needed a candle. Meg thought about getting one from her room, but decided against it. It would waste time (her room being on the other side of the opera house) or she could get caught wandering about. _Where can I get a candle?_ she thought.

Within an instant Meg's face lit up. Down the hall a ways from the theatre were prop rooms; where all the props were kept. Jewellery, dinner ware, furniture, books…everything they used to create scenes, perform a task, anything during one of the operas. Including candles and matches. Meg would just take a candle and a match from inside one of the prop rooms. Lord knows they had at least one to spare. No one would notice if one went missing. And besides, Meg could put the candle back when she was finished with it. Yes. Yes, that's what she would do. Now her plan had seemingly no holes, Meg silently ran back in the other direction towards the theatre. She walked past the grand doors that led into the theatre, and a length of hall down she came to the first prop room. Meg often fetched things from the prop room for her mother, and she knew that each prop room was reserved for a specific type of prop. The first, furniture; the second jewellery, costumes and accessories, and so on. There were five prop rooms in all, and Meg would find what she needed in prop room 3.

She slipped through the third door, leaving it ajar to let in some light. Meg scanned the shelves, tracing her fingers over smooth, cold decorated china plates and silverware. She walked down the length of the first aisle of shelves, then up the next, and so on until she arrived at the very end of the last aisle. She found the box that read candles, and opened it. Nothing. Meg sighed in exasperation and shoved the box back. Now what? Another idea came. There was a sixth prop room. It wasn't a _prop_ room really, but a room where they kept spare ropes and burlap sacks and other things that the stage hands would need in the event that some of the curtain ropes broke, sandbags split open or other such things. People rarely went in there, but Meg was sure that there must be some extra candles. She slipped back out of the prop room and continued down the hall until she reached the sixth door; a layer of dust coating the handle from lack of use. She turned the handle and pushed open the door, which creaked as it swung open. Meg dusted off her hands and looked about.

No one must have been in here for a very long time indeed. Everything had a coating of dust, and cobwebs littered the corners of walls and shelves. Meg walked forward, intending to start her search at the very back of the far end of the room this time. She needn't search far however, for at the very back of the farthest aisle was another box not unlike the one from prop room 3 that read candles. Meg lifted the box and sure enough, there was weight in it. She flung back the lid and, seeing the candles, gave a triumphant 'Ha!' She took one and looked around for matches, which she thought were sure to be somewhere near the candles. She turned to face the far back wall where a row of shelves was placed against it, and began to rifle through the boxes.

About halfway through her search of the middle shelf, she pulled away a small box and was about to open it when something caught her eye. Behind the box was of course, the wall. But there was a small circle, barely discernable in the darkness, sticking out; a button of some sort. Meg put the box she was holding down on the shelf below and, looked closer, making sure it was really there. Yes, it was covered in dust, even more thickly than anything else, but it was there. Meg cocked her head at it curiously, and without thinking, reached out and pushed it. The instant her finger pushed down on the button Meg experienced a sensation she was beginning to become quite familiar with; falling.

There was no time to think nor properly react, not even time to scream. One second Meg was standing there, completely absorbed in her quest to find the purpose of this button, the next she was plummeting downward through the air, down a vertical, rock corridor much like the inside of a chimney. Suddenly the corridor widened into a cavern, the bottom far below ending in an underground lake. Meg gasped out of surprise more than fear, and completely of its own accord, her arm struck out, her palm pushing against a stalactite. The force sent the right side of her small body slamming into another. Meg felt a snap, and her side pulsed in agony. Now the whole event happened very fast, and Meg only had time to get a glimpse of lit candles of all things, and the sound of a piano before she was shocked to find herself submerged in icy water. Down she plunged until the force of her fall ceased and she froze in place surrounded by the underground lake's murky depths.

**Erik was not completely absorbed in his music at the moment. Almost, but not quite. As his fingers danced over the keys of his piano, his mind was occupied. He was going over tonight's performance in his head. Truly, it had been the finest opera Erik had witnessed in at least…Well, he didn't really know. At least a decade, he guessed. The prima donna had sounded pleasant. Sweet, if not as full as he would've liked, but sweet. The chorus line had done an amazing job as well, and he had been blown away by Marguerite's performance. It had been magnificent. That joyful glow he had seen many times had been within her, but it had shone through with a particular brilliance this night. He had been a part of the many audience members that had risen to their feet to clap for her when she had finished. With the thought of Marguerite, he thought of the gift he had given her. Well, **_**gifts**_** really, if you counted the rose, but he was thinking of the necklace he had made for her. The chain he had already had on hand, but the dove he had carved specifically for her, in honour of her wish for flight. He hoped she had found it satisfactory, for she certainly deserved it. **

**Erik was snapped out of his reverie by a loud splash from behind him. **_**What the…**_** he thought, whipping around in his seat. His eyes widened as he saw a small pale hand slipping beneath the murky surface of the lake. A child's hand. He instantly stood, ripping off his jacket as he ran to the water's edge and casting it aside. He ran a few paces into the water, took a breath and dove into the water's frigid embrace. **

Within a second (out of instinct more than rational thought) Meg began to pump her arms and kick her legs, trying to make her way upwards through the water to the surface. Meg had a vague idea of how to swim, but she had never officially learned having always been occupied with her ballet training and living in the opera house with no body of water any bigger than a bath in which to swim. It had never been a thing of great importance for her to learn, or it had at least seemed that way before this moment. At this moment Meg wished very much that she knew how to swim. She clawed upward at the water, trying in vain to reach the world above her, to reach the sweet air her lungs craved. She succeeded for a moment, traveling a few inches upward, but her silk dress had become heavy with water, and it weighed her down. To her horror, Meg felt that she was once again sinking. Terrified, she raked her hands through the water desperately, her lungs burning. She exhaled in an attempt to ease the fire that ravaged her chest, air rushing from her and clouding her already clouded vision with bubbles. The flames stopped for an instant, but reappeared as Meg's body forced her to inhale. Water flooded her lungs, choking her. Meg grabbed at the water, pushing it downwards away from her but to no avail. Her dress had absorbed so much of the murky liquid by now that it felt to be made of lead. With an air of despair Meg stopped thrashing. She had no strength left with which to fight any longer. A black fog was seeping into her eyes, starting at the sides and eventually covering her entire line of sight. With a last thought of goodbye to her mother and Christine, Meg submitted to the water's frigid pull, and everything ceased to exist.

**Erik searched frantically through the murky water. Who could have possibly fallen through the trapdoor in the spare room? He had made sure that the trigger was hidden when he had first discovered it all those years ago specifically because he did not wish to find a drowned body on the shore one day when he returned home from a rehearsal or other scenarios of the like. The vision of the small hand disappearing below the surface flashed behind his eyes, making him shudder. Whoever it was, he would not have on his conscience the death of someone he could have saved. He had trouble sleeping as it was. He would make sure the unfortunate one was alive, then hand them over to Madame Giry. With luck whoever it was would be unconscious, and Antoinette would think of something to tell them about what had happened. They had been dreaming, drunk, delirious, he did not care, as long as no one had the notion of where the Opera Ghost lived, or that he would save a life. But that would only happen if he could find them in time. If not…**

**Erik snapped back into full alert as something moved in the corner of his eye. A fold of blue cloth. Erik dived towards it, taking hold of it and pulling it towards him. A figure appeared out of the cloudy depths and Erik grabbed a hold of it, wrapping his arm on what he guessed to be the person's waist, and kicked towards the surface with a violent urgency. He himself had been under for too long, and he cursed himself for not taking another breath before diving so deep. The surface seemed so very far away…They were both lucky that whoever it was was so small, so light (it was probably a woman), else it would have been much harder for Erik to get them both back to the surface again. With all his strength, he managed to get them to the realm of the breathing once more. To his dismay, his companion did not gasp for air as he did when they surfaced, and he looked over at the figure encircled in his arm. When he saw who it was he swam as fast as he was able back to shore. It was Marguerite Giry.**

**When his feet found the ground he stood and walked until he was out of the water up to his waist. He flung Marguerite up into his arms and made a struggled run to the shore. He fell to his knees on the wet stone floor gently laid the girl down. Breathing raggedly, he regarded her closely. She did not appear to be injured, but she was not breathing. Using a technique he learned from his days in India, Erik pressed the heels of his hands to the middle of the girl's chest and applied force three times. Then, abandoning all thoughts of propriety, he pressed his lips to the girl's and forced air into her lungs. **_**Please don't wake up.**_** He inwardly cursed himself for the inappropriateness of the situation, but banished the negative thoughts immediately. This needed to be done if she was to live. He brought his face back up and pressed down on her chest again, three times. He waited for a fear filled moment. He had sworn to protect her. She would not die. He would not allow it. She did not breath, and he was about to give her breath once more when she began to cough violently. Relief flooded him as he turned her on her side. Water poured from her mouth as she coughed again and again. Eventually this subsided and she gasped for air, inhaling sharply. She rolled back over, completely exhausted, and opened her groggy eyes at him. She looked into his eyes for a moment, and Erik saw a tiny flash of recognition in her eyes before they fell shut, and she either fainted or fell asleep. She breathed deeply, and Erik breathed sigh of relief of his own.**

**His relief was only momentary however, as a new problem met him as he grasped her hand. It was abnormally cold, and as he looked upon her sleeping face, he was unnerved to find her skin paler than normal, almost white, and her lips had gone an unnatural shade of blue. He placed a hand to her cheek and felt a shock go through the place where his flesh touched hers. She was so **_**cold.**_** Colder than even he was, but then again she had been underwater much longer, and the underground lake was a cold worthy of ice, though it never froze. He felt a sudden wave of panic. Blue lips, extremely pale skin, icy flesh...There was a word for this ailment. A term that went with these symptoms. Erik could not recall the precise word, no doubt he would remember it later, but he remembered that it could be fatal if not looked after immediately. **_**We're not out of the woods yet, little one,**_** he thought to himself, sense of duty banishing all fear or panic. He immediately began to rack his brain for what he should do, what appropriate action would be. **

**The sensible thing would be to get her warm, of course. Warm and dry, and she could not get dry in that soaking dre-…Erik halted in mid-thought. Her **_**dress**_**? Would he **_**really**_** have to remove it? He looked down at Marguerite again, who was now shivering violently. As much as he disliked the idea, it seemed that it would be necessary. Huffing in annoyance, he picked her up and carried her away from the water. Placing her down on the rug in front of the piano, he went to his kitchen to fetch a knife. Muttering to himself about blasted silk absorbing water so much, he returned to kneel beside her, and with one more hesitation, cut down the front of her dress. He didn't feel guilty for cutting it. The water would've ruined it by now anyway. Feeling extremely awkward and once again huffing at the lack of propriety of his actions, he pulled her arms out of their sleeves first and then slowly pulled the whole thing off. To his imminent relief she was wearing a linen chemise underneath that was not too wet. **_**That**_** he would most certainly **_**not**_** be removing.**

**Reaching for the towel he had brought back with him when he went to get the knife, he wiped away all the remaining droplets of water, and rung out handfuls of her hair, doing his best to complete his first task. Get her dry. When he had finished, he went to his bedroom and took out one of his shirts for his second task. Get her warm. Returning to her, he set about pulling her into a sitting position, and supporting her back with one hand, dressed her in his shirt with the other. He laid her back down so he could do up the buttons, and nearly laughed. She looked quite comical really. The shirt was much too big for her; big enough to be a nightgown, and the sleeves flopped far past her hands. He rolled up the sleeves until they were fixed at her wrists and removed her ice blue ballet slippers from the performance that she had left on. There. He wiped some of the remaining water away from his face in a satisfied way. When his fingers brushed something hard, he was surprised to find that throughout the whole ordeal his mask had remained attached to his face. For this he was glad. Not only because he had grown to feel that his mask was a part of him, making him almost slightly comfortable with his own face, but also for that Marguerite had not seen his deformity when she had briefly been conscious. He would not wish to have the image of himself haunting her nightmares.**

**Taking his mask off for a moment, he wiped the water from his face with the towel, then dried his mask, and put it back on. He felt almost naked without it now. Picking up the girl again, he carried her into his bedroom and laid her down on his swan bed, tucking the red silk blankets in around her. As an afterthought, he took an extra blanket out from one of his drawers and placed it on top too. He stood back and admired his work. Her lips were now their normal colour, though she was still a bit pale. But she was warm, dry, comfortable. And she was breathing, most importantly. She was alive, and it was because if him. He had kept his oath so far. Satisfied, he took out some dry clothes of his own and went into the bathroom to change. When he came back out he immediately went to his writing desk and began to write a note to Madame Giry. He would not include all the details of tonight's event, but he would inform her that her daughter had had a little accident, but that she was being taken care of. He had no doubt in his mind that Antoinette would trust him. He had, after all, taken care of her daughter when she was mere babe, hadn't he? He dried the ink and placed the note in an envelope, not bothering to put on his usual skull seal. This note would be for Madame Giry's eyes alone. **

**Speaking of eyes, his eyes were nearly rolling back into his head. He was quite exhausted. Stifling a yawn, he stood up and stretched his arms back behind his head. He honestly felt as if he could not make the journey through the passages to Madame Giry's room. He could always bring the message to her in the morning. He stifled another yawn. She would be worried, but…There was no use arguing with himself about it now. He was almost asleep on his feet already. He went back to his bedroom and quietly took out another blanket, sliding the drawer back silently. He went back out into the main room and went to the divan against the far back wall. Throwing the blanket onto himself, he was asleep the moment his head hit the cushion, anxious thoughts of little Marguerite, cold and lifeless, plaguing his tired mind.**


	5. Setting and Settling In

The next morning, Meg awoke, but she did not open her eyes. She was too comfortable to wake up just yet. She was warm, comfortable, wrapped in something very soft, and it felt very good to simply breathe in and out…Breathe? With a gasp Meg opened her eyes. Visions flashed through her mind's eye as she breathed rapidly. Clawing through an endless mass of water, her lungs burning, everything going black…Meg felt an unreasonable rush of fear as she remembered it all. She looked about wildly and abruptly paused. How had she survived? She vividly remembered drowning. She couldn't have imagined something that frightening. Yet, as she looked down at her hands and opened them and closed them repeatedly, she felt it; she was really there. So she was alive; somehow she had survived. And another thing, where was she? She remained lying down but used her eyes to scan every visible inch of the room she was in.

She was wrapped in a blanket and red silk sheets in some sort of bed that rounded up around her giving the impression that she was in a bowl. She could see very little besides that, for the bed was surrounded by a sheer but opaque black curtain. Meg was a bit uneasy. She hadn't even the slightest notion as to where she was, and who she was with. That is, if she was with anyone. All was completely silent. Meg reached up her hand to rub at her eyes and gave a start when she saw it. it was clad in a rather large white sleeve. Meg lifted the blankets to look at herself. She was no longer in her dress, but a large, white man's shirt. Meg flushed with embarrassment. Whoever saved her had also took it upon themselves to undress her. To her relief, under the shirt she found that she was still wearing her chemise, and for this she was grateful to her saviour for leaving it alone.

Meg was suddenly alert. She heard footsteps. Not coming toward her, but they were somewhere just outside the door. That irrational twinge of fear from before was back. She had no reason to fear whoever it was; they had bothered to save her, hadn't they? If they wanted to harm her they would've done so by now. Meg listened intently. She was quite shocked to find the sound of a piano reaching her ears. _Monsieur Phantom!_ She thought. Of course! She should have realized! The underground lake must be part of the catacombs, and he lived down here, did he not? It was _he_ who had saved her! Meg jumped up in an attempt to leave the bed only to gasp in pain and fall back down. When she sat up there had been a sharp pain in her right side. Very sharp. Even as she fell back down the spot burned dully. She lay there, clutching at the spot and breathing heavily but quietly. When she had gasped it had been louder than she had intended, and the music wafting in from the other room immediately stopped. The previous footsteps came her way quickly. The corner of the curtain was flung back, and there stood the Phantom, his face impassive, but with a flicker of worries in his eyes.

Meg was at quite a loss as to what to say. Her first impulse was to drop down and thank him for at least an hour, but she had some sense and dignity. She smiled shyly, and said in a joking manner, "Moniseur Phantom! How are you? It's been too long."

He simply stared at her for a moment, with the look of a person who was trying to decide whether to be angry or to laugh. He did neither, and instead replied "I am fine Marguerite, though I cannot say the same for you."

"Me, Monsieur? Oh, I am quite alright, thank you. And I am so because of you. I cannot thank you enough sir, for saving me the way you did."

"There is no need to thank me, Marguerite. I did what any man would've done."

"No, not _any _man. Forgive me for contradicting you, monsieur, but I am sure that there are quite a few that would have not risked losing their own life just for the sake of saving another's." She paused for a moment, then continued to say, "I really cannot thank you enough. I am in your debt, sir."

He shook his head, gripping the curtain harder than necessary. "You owe me nothing, Marguerite. I have done more damage than good in my life, and this deed hardly makes up for anything." Now it was Meg's turn to stare, her deep blue eyes looking up at him, wide and confused. "If you really wish to thank me, you will kindly never do that again." Meg smiled, but it froze in place and slowly fell as she watched his face go from emotionless to angry. "What were you even _doing_, Marguerite? Do you realize that you could've been killed? That trigger was hidden for a reason!" Meg shrunk away from him, sinking into her pillow. "What were you doing, skulking around an abandoned prop room in the middle of the night, rifling through shelves and finding a trigger, and _then_, having no idea whatsoever as to what it did, _pressing _it?"

"I didn't know…" Meg started, but the Phantom cut her off, his hand slicing the air in an aggravated fashion.

"Exactly, Marguerite! _You didn't know_! You had no idea what that trigger did! You had no idea what might've happened! What if I had not been there when you fell! What if I had not been there?" Meg remained mute. "Answer me, Marguerite!"

Meg shrunk back even further into the pillow. "I believe I would've died, Monsieur."

"You _believe_ you would have died, Marguerite?" he exclaimed.

"I WOULD have died, Monsieur!" Marguerite nearly shouted, she herself becoming angry now. He was being unfair. True she had not really thought about what would happen after she had pressed the trigger, but honestly, who would have guessed that it might've killed her? It was a button, for goodness sake!

"A tone? Did you just use a _tone_ with me, Marguerite?" his voice had dropped considerably in volume, and it sounded somehow even more menacing than when he was raising his voice.

"I-I…I'm sorry," Meg stammered, looking down at the blankets, her voice nearly inaudible.

She did not look at him, but heard him sigh and the sound of cloth flapping in on itself. When she looked up, he was gone. Sighing herself, Meg forced herself into a sitting position despite the pain and hugged her knees to her chest. She never failed to feel safe and comfortable when in this position. The spot on her ribs burned, but she ignored it. She was upset with herself at the moment. When she had first ventured out into the halls of the opera house last night (at least, she assumed it had been last night) she had intended to thank him for his gift, and instead she had succeed in putting both their lives in danger and angering him. She sighed again. She would apologize later after she had given him some time for himself.

Surprising herself, Meg's thoughts drifted toward her father. What would he say if he knew of the mischief she had been making these past weeks. She frowned, wondering at what he might think of how she had placed herself in danger just now, and the life of another; but her frown turned into a small smile as she thought of how he would have laughed at her face when she fell through the trapdoor into the mirror room. Meg felt a pang in her heart, remembering his laugh. She missed his laugh. She missed _him_. So very much. She had been devastated the winter he died, and for a time there after, but as months went by it gradually became bearable, and she and her mother together moved on. He never left their hearts, of course not, but they had been able to continue on their day to day life without much grieving. Every so often however, Meg would once again revisit the memories she had of him, and every so often they would bring a tear to her eye. This moment was one of such moments.

Meg nearly growled as the salty drop slipped out. She raised her hand to wipe it away, but someone caught her firmly by the wrist before she could. She gasped (oh how it hurt to gasp. She would have to stop doing it,) in surprise and turned behind her to see who it was. Before she could make the full rotation, she had to stop and turn back around. The spot on her side was screaming in pain from the movement, and she clutched her side and inhaled through her teeth, causing her to hiss. The Phantom was now kneeling beside the bed, taking her hands away from her side. At first she refused, merely clutching at the spot tighter, but he simply looked at her in a hard way, and she let go, rolling her eyes when he looked away. He lightly touched the spot she had been holding with his first two fingers.

"This is the spot that pains you?" he asked, looking up at her. She nodded, grimacing. "Pull the covers up to your waist, please," he ordered.

"Beg pardon?"

"The blankets," he repeated. "Pull them up to you waist, please." Meg raised her eyebrows, but complied. After she had shimmied back under the covers, the Phantom reached out and began to lift the right side of her shirt (well, his shirt really,) and chemise. Meg eyes widened at him and she slapped his hand rather childishly. He looked at her, one eyebrow raised. "Mademoiselle Giry, do not strike me again. I wish only to help you." He reached for the fabric again, but Meg's hand was around it again. He regarded her closely, and her angry expression faltered under his scrutiny. "Marguerite," he said firmly. "Let go. It seems that you have been injured. If it is merely a bruise, it can be left alone. If it is of a more serious nature, it needs to be addressed; else your pain will grow." Reluctantly, after a few moments hesitation, Meg let go.

Once again, he lifted the right side of her shirt and chemise until her ribs were uncovered. Meg looked down at herself. There was a very large bruise covering most of the right side of her rib cage, and on the place that hurt the most was a small rising, a sharp upward ridge that pushed up underneath her skin. It certainly _looked_ serious. Meg whispered a shocked "oh" at the sight of it. The Phantom glanced up at her. "Indeed," he said, examining it closely. "I am going to examine it further. Tell me when you're in pain." Meg nodded. Lightly, he touched the tips of his fingers to the rising. He looked up at Meg expectantly, and she shook her head, telling him it did not hurt. When he pressed down, however, it was a different matter entirely. Meg fought back the urge to scream as he applied pressure, and instead let out some sort of mixture of a cry of pain and a gasp. He did not remove his hand, but ceased to push down on the ridge. "Did that hurt very much?" he inquired, seriously.

Breathing raggedly (which hurt), Meg answered, "Oh not very much. Just excruciatingly so."

"Excruciating, Marguerite? A strong word."

"Seemed fitting to me, Monsieur," she replied, breathlessly.

"Indeed," he said again. "Marguerite, it seems that you have a broken rib."

Meg paused for a moment from the still lingering pain before saying, "Really?"

"Unfortunately, yes. I'll have to set this right away." He said the last bit more to himself than to Meg.

"Set it, Monsieur?" Meg asked. She did not know what he meant.

In response, he simply nodded. He was busy looking through the drawers of a nearby dresser. He pulled out a white linen sheet and began to rip a long strip off of it. "This may hurt."

"What may hurt?" Meg asked, wearily. She did not like his tone of voice. Once again, he did not answer. He gathered the length of cloth in his hand and went to kneel beside her again. "Marguerite, not matter what you might feel in the next few moments, I need you to promise me that you will do what I say," he said, his eyes boring into hers. Meg did not answer. "I only wish to help you, Marguerite." Biting her lip, Meg nodded. She had a feeling she would not enjoy this "setting" business.

"Bon," he replied, unwinding the strip of cloth.

"Monsieur?" Meg asked, quietly. He looked up at her. "Will it hurt very much, Monsieur?"

The Phantom sighed, putting the cloth down before looking up at her again. "I will not lie to you, Marguerite. It will. But it needs to be done." Meg nodded, looking at blankets again.

"I understand."

"I know you do, and for that I am grateful." He had one end of the cloth in his hand, and he brought this hand around her back, reaching his other hand around to grab the cloth. He pulled the two ends until the cloth was taught around her back. He positioned the cloth so that it was directly in line with the rising (her bone, Meg guessed) and wrapped the two ends around her again so that the cloth completely covered the broken bone. "Please remember Marguerite; whatever you may feel, please, do not move until I say." Meg nodded as he folded one end over and under the other, bringing it back up, creating a twist. He tightened his grip on the cloth. "I would take a breath now, little Giry." Meg did so, held it, and without a word the Phantom pulled his hands out to the sides, tightening the cloth.

Meg saw stars; the pain was absolutely blinding. Meg felt as if she was being stabbed, burned, and crushed all at the same time. As he tightened the cloth it constricted the air from her lungs, sending it rushing from her in a gasp. Meg did not move, but gripped the blankets so hard that her knuckles turned white and her fingers threatened to splinter. She felt a strong urge to faint, but resisted. She also felt her eyes tearing, but did not allow herself to cry. She was stronger than that. She squeezed her eyes shut to keep any tears from escaping, but she could not keep her body from wracking with dry sobs. Then suddenly, it stopped. Meg did not hear the crack so much as feel it, but she did feel some sort of snap around the bone. It must have snapped back into place. There was still a sharp ache, but the real pain was gone, and it was bearable. Meg breathed as someone who has just run a great distance as Monsieur tied the cloth into a knot over the injury.

"There," he said as he finished. He looked up at her. "Are you alright?"

Opening her eyes, Meg nodded. As she did, a drop of crystal slipped over her lashes and fell onto her cheek. "Oh," she huffed angrily. She reached to wipe it away, but again he caught her wrist.

"Stop," he ordered, setting her wrist down. Meg remained still as the tear slid down her cheek. "Why do you do that, Marguerite?" he asked.

"Do what, Monsieur?"

"I have known you for a long time, Marguerite, just by watching you as I watch over everything in this opera house, and each time I have ever seen you begin to tear, you fairly scold yourself." He paused, and she looked away. "It is not a sin to cry, Marguerite. I would know. I have become quite acquainted with sins over the years."

Meg was silent for a moment. "I…I don't let myself cry Monsieur, hardly ever, anymore. Because…it makes me feel weak, and I don't, _can't_, let myself be weak. Too many people need me to be strong for me to be anything less. Look at Christine. Her father died shortly after my own father passed awa-…after my father, and it nearly killed her. She needed me more than I needed to do grieving of my own, so I had to hide any feelings of grief away, so to speak. To care for her. It was the same with my mother, only she was able to carry on again after a few days. But she needs me for so many other things; working around the opera, my ballet, running errands, keeping up my school work. Christine needs me too. She's terribly shy, and the other girls used to be cruel to her. That was before I found out, of course. Then it stopped right then and there." She paused. "So you see Monsieur, I can't afford to not be anything but strong. My family needs me."

"Ah, Marguerite. You are stronger than you realize," he said, before pulling the blankets around her once again and leaving her to rest.

When Meg awoke again, she felt many different things. She was warm and comfortable, but she was also in pain; her rib was throbbing. She also felt very light, as if an enormous weight had been lifted from her, and that felt good. And above all, she felt that she needed to go and thank him right now. She was so grateful to him, for everything, that she could not put it to words. She hoped a string of thank yous and apologies would make him see that. She sat up and stretched her arms up, bringing them back down immediately from the pain in her side. Careful of her rib, she reached over to the side and pulled a cord that she assumed brought up the curtain. She assumed right.

The black fabric rose around her to reveal the rock cavern surrounding her. To her right there was an arched opening in the rock, and by looking out she could see the underground lake. She shivered, thinking back to when she had been beneath that smooth surface. _I really should learn to swim,_ she thought, absently. Carefully she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and had to jump down, to her surprise. It was higher than she had expected. She walked silently to the cave mouth and peeked outside. What she saw left her spellbound.

Her room was just on the edge of an enormous cavern. Along the circular edge she could see similar doorways leading to places she could only guess, but the cavern itself was completely astonishing. There were rock stairs and different levels, red silk curtains draped around the walls, beautiful candelabras holding tall candles, and more candles just placed around the room then Meg could count. They were all lit, and they filled the cavern with a fair amount of light, but it still had that pleasant candlelight flicker that made shadows dance across the walls in fleeting ballet. The place was also comfortably furnished. There was a rug here and there, a writing desk with a black feather quill, inkwell and paper at the ready, a divan in the corner, a few ornate mirrors, and in the middle of the higher level as if on a pedestal, was an organ, music sheets scattered around it. At this organ, sat the Phantom, his back to her, scribbling on one of the sheets of music. She watched him write for a moment. Every so often he would press his finger to one of the keys, listen to the sound it made, then make another note.

He was dressed casually; a white, loose shirt not unlike the one she was wearing (though hers fell to her knees) and black pants. From where she was standing she could not see his face, but she could just make out the edge of his white mask. Silently she walked down the stairs and made her way across the cavern, letting her eyes take in every detail as she went. He did not notice her. Grateful for her dancer's soundless stride, she walked up another small set of stairs to stand behind him. She had just reached out her hand to tap him on the shoulder when he said, "Good morning, little bird. You walk very silently you know. Anyone but me would never hear you. From your dancing, I expect."

Meg was stunned for a moment, but recovered her composure immediately. "Good morning. I just wanted to thank you again, Monsieur, for everything. Thank you so much. And I am sorry for-…"

" Marguerite," he cut her off. "It is alright. I know you are grateful. You needn't grovel so."

Meg blushed. "I was not!" she retorted.

"You were, a little," he teased. Meg was surprised to see him tease. It was different for him. "You are feeling well rested, I trust?"

"Oh, yes, thank you. Very. What time is it?"

"Seven in the morning."

"I slept a whole day?" she asked, incredulous.

"Hardly. You were last awake roughly four hours ago."

"Four hours?" Meg did the math. "I woke you up at three in the morning, Monsieur? Oh, I am so sorry!"

"No need to apologize; I was already awake when you woke up. I rarely sleep at regular intervals."

"Oh," said Meg, slightly surprised, but she should be getting used to expecting the unexpected from him. "When did I…drop in?"

"Eleven last evening. I must say, you made quite an entrance."

Meg could not believe it. It was hard to imagine all that had happened happening in the course of one night. Meg smiled shyly, then grew sombre. "I really am sorry, Monsieur. You put yourself in danger because of me, and I apologize."

"Marguerite, this is the last time I will tolerate your apologies. You need not say them. It was hardly your fault. I am the one who should apologize for shouting at you. But please, promise me you will not set off a trigger _before _knowing what it does ever again."

"I believe I can do that, Monsieur." Meg smiled.

"Thank you, little Giry." He thought for a moment. "But now, you must be hungry, non?"

Meg thought about it, and realized that she was. "A bit Monsieur, actually."

"Very well. I will not have you starving on my watch. Come with me; your breakfast should be ready by now." He got up from the bench and motioned to the left. Meg was pleasantly surprised. He had made breakfast for her? That was thoughtful of him. She followed along behind him to one of the doorways, which led into a short hall, at the end of which was a red curtain. He pulled said curtain to the side, and motioned for her to proceed.

Meg ducked under his arm and yet another wonderful sight met her eyes. She was standing in a kitchen. There was a stove against the back wall, cupboards somehow attached to the rock wall, an ice box a little ways away from the stove, and in between two sets of cupboards was a sink! He had somehow managed to get running water down here! A counter atop a set of drawers occupied the middle of the room. There was also a wooden table with one chair at it, set with a plate, napkin and glass of milk. He motioned for her to sit, which she did, and watched him as he took her plate and went to the stove. He placed the plate on the countertop, and wrapping a small towel around one hand, he opened the door on the side of the stove and reached in. his hand immerged holding a pan of golden brown muffins.

Their sweet, bready smell filled the room and Meg's mouth watered. He gingerly took one out of its place and put it on the plate. He set the plate down before her, and Meg thanked him.

"Excuse me a moment," he said and went back out through the door.

Meg blew on the muffin and sunk her teeth into it without delay. Tart sweetness filled her mouth as she chewed. It was filled with strawberries! Meg loved strawberries. She took another bite as she looked around, admiring her surroundings and swinging her feet. The Phantom returned within a few moments with another chair. He placed it opposite her and sat down. Folding his hands in his lap, he watched her eat the bite she had in her mouth. Meg self consciously smoothed his shirt (the one she was wearing, not his). She swallowed and again thanked him for the muffin.

"It is satisfactory, I hope?" he asked.

"It's delicious!" Meg assured him. "And your home is…well, it's just amazing," she commented, looking around. She looked back to him. "Did you make all this yourself?"

"The furnishings or the cave?"

"The cave."

"That main cavern and some of the smaller ones were here already; carved out by the water many years ago. But the majority of it yes, I made myself."

Meg was awe-struck. "How?"

"Dynamite," he replied smoothly, as if it were a common procedure.

"Dynamite?" she repeated, incredulous. "But...wouldn't that be very dangerous? You could've blown everything to bits!"

He chuckled. "I am very precise with my measurements, Marguerite, I assure you." Meg stared for a moment, wondering where he even got _dynamite,_ but let it slide. If she asked everything about him that she wanted to know, they would be there until they both died.

"Well, you're certainly quite the craftsman, Monsieur Phantom."

"Thank you. But how does your rib feel?"

Meg hesitated for a moment. She had not expected the question. "Fine Monsieur, thank you for…setting it," she said, remembering the term.

"It needed to be done. But honestly, how does it feel?"

"Fine Monsieur, really!" she insisted.

He looked over her for a moment. "Reach up your right hand," he ordered. Meg hesitated, then did so. Her side burned, but she kept a straight face. "Stand up." She stood. "Try and touch the floor." Meg sighed inwardly, but complied. She could reach her hand to her knees before she had to spring back up, gasping in pain. She looked up to him to find that he had moved to stand right before her. She was at eye level with a bit above his waist. She looked up into his face, which was smirking slightly. "Fine, is it?"

Meg huffed in annoyance. "Yes Monsieur, _fine_."

"I believe you are lying to me, Marguerite."

"I am not one to question your beliefs Monsieur, even if I don't agree with them," Meg replied. Meg didn't mind admitting it; she had a quick wit.

The Phantom chuckled. "Your spirit never fails to amuse me, but that aside, that rib is not _fine_. Not yet. It must heal."

Meg grew nervous. "How long will that take, Monsieur?"

"Anywhere from six to eight weeks."

"Six to eight weeks! But Monsieur, I cannot wait that long! I have my dancing, and Maman needs my help, and I have to-…"

Monsieur cut her off. "Marguerite, you do not have a choice."

"But…"

"No buts. That wound needs to heal, and it won't do so unless you rest. You certainly cannot dance with it."

Meg was about to protest that it was her rib that was injured, not her legs, when she stopped herself. She knew that one needed their entire body to dance. She sighed. "I suppose I'll have to be shut up in my dormitory then."

"Not likely. You will be here."

"What?"

"If I let you go back, people will ask where you have been all night, how you sustained that injury…No. It will cause more trouble than good. You will stay here until you've completely healed."

Meg did not know what to say. He was going to keep her here? She did not know what to think. She did not have any outright objection; she trusted him, and from what she had seen he was extremely kind. But she was still nervous at the prospect of living down here alone with him for six to eight weeks. She did not want to get in his way, or put him out. And there was also everything she had to do back at the opera house. Well, she had not really left the opera house, she was merely beneath it, but still. And there was Christine and her mother; they needed her. But clearly she had no opinion in any of those matters. But they would both wonder where she was! Everyone would! Of course none of the other dancers liked her but her dear Marie, but they would surely notice the disappearance of their best dancer, whether they cared or not. And her mother and Christine and Marie would all be so worried!

"But Monsieur, what about my Maman and Christine? They will wonder where I am!"

"I am a good friend of your mother's, Marguerite. She understands, and has agreed to my suggestion. She will tell anyone who asks that you have been sent to see your grandmother for a month or so. It has all been taken care of."

Meg was silent for a moment. He hadthought of everything. There wouldn't be any way out of it now. "I do not wish to impose, Monsieur."

"And you shall not. You would be company for me," he said with a slight smirk. "I rarely get visitors down here."

Meg smiled slightly. He _had _thought of everything. There would be no way out of it now. Still, she was glad to hear that she would not be a bother. "Alright, Monsieur. I thank you, for your generosity."

"Think nothing of it, please. But now, you really should rest for a while longer. I have some business to attend to at the moment, but I shall join you later, alright?"

Meg nodded and took the arm he offered her. She let him lead her to her room, and she climbed into bed, wincing slightly at the burning in her side. "Are you comfortable enough?"

"Oh yes Monsieur, thank you."

He nodded. "Should you need anything, do not hesitate to call." She nodded and thanked him again, and he left with a short bow. She smiled to herself and looked at the ceiling, her eyes tracing over the swirling patterns in the stone, and heard his footsteps travel away from her.


	6. the man behind the monster

And so a friendship began.

**Erik eventually told Marguerite about his past. Nothing close to nothing close to full detail (he did not want her to hear of some of the things he had done), but about her mother saving him, and bringing him to live in the opera house. . While she stayed with him, he often played music for her whenever he was able, knowing that she enjoyed it. Sometimes he asked her if she would like to hear a piece that he'd been working on (she always said yes), other times he would simply begin to sing whenever he sensed her listening, making it seem that he was doing it absent-mindedly, in a way that one would whistle when walking down the street. The fact that he felt small twinges of guilt on the occasions when her eyes grew to that tell-tale glazed state when he sang something particularly intoxicating (which was nearly everything, whether Erik wanted it to happen or not; it was simply his voice) never changed, but the girl would nearly always snap out of it within a few moments, so he mostly pushed the thoughts away.**

**They spent many pleasant hours together in those two months, talking, singing; he even taught her complex level of piano-playing, which she grasped quickly. With his help, Marguerite slowly but surely trained and healed her body, and became well enough to once again dance to her full ability. This, of course, thrilled her beyond words. She had missed flying. Losing her dance (even for merely a few months) was like losing a limb for her. She didn't feel whole without it, like there was a tangible part of her missing. But soon enough (if not as soon as she would have liked), he gave her her wings back.**

Meg spent the better part of two months living with the Phantom, with her mother coming to visit once a week (she wanted to always see her daughter of course, but she respected the Phantom's want for privacy). A strong bond developed between the two of them, and they soon established a fast, close friendship. After a while he even gave her permission to call him by his real name; Erik. Eventually, he had even told her his tragic story, about how he had been treated in ways for which cruelty is not a strong enough word, and that her mother had saved him and brought him to the opera house to live when he was nine. Meg was exceedingly sympathetic as well as horrified at how cruel people could be, but she no longer outwardly showed her pity after discovering in a short while that he despised the very idea of being pitied by her. Meg sensed that he was like her in that way, fighting to remain strong at all times. He succeeded in this much better than she did, she could never picture him being anything less than the strong, untouchable person he was, but it was still the same mentality. This only added to the strengthening of their rapidly growing bond. Even more so when Meg's second month healing was nearing its end, he showed her his face. Meg did not scream as she knew he had feared, nor did she even show any sign of revulsion. Behind her wide eyes, her mind raced with at first shock, then utterly consuming empathy.

Against her will, she let out a small sound of sympathy, between a groan and a soft gasp, and laid her small hand lightly on the scarred flesh.

**Erik was surprised he could even decipher her words, seeing as he was completely stunned and shocked from her small, gentle hand placing itself lightly on his gruesome excuse of a face (well, half a face). She was not terrified, she wasn't disgusted. It did not seem to bother her at all. She was actually compassionate. "Oh Erik," she said softly, her voice pained with empathy. "Does it hurt?"**

_**Does it hurt? **_**Those three, single-syllable words tore at Erik's heart. Never before had he had anyone spoken to him with such innocent, honest compassion, concern, kindness. Madame Giry had been wonderful to him, of course, but even she had been slightly afraid of him at first, though she tried valiantly not to let it show. Now there before him was this small, young girl-child, who had been alive for scarcely more than a decade, who had known him for such a short span of time, was not even batting an eyelash at how he looked, but was concerned with whether or not he was **_**in pain**_**. He was so stunned, albeit moved by her reaction that he barely managed to answer her in a hushed voice that it pained him occasionally, but not much. But if he thought he was blown away a moment ago, he was not expecting what came next.**

**Marguerite, a mere moment after his answer, attached herself to his waist in a soft hug. Erik stood there for a few moments, unaccustomed to any sort of physical interaction, simply staring at the top of the girl's head, which was pressed up against his shirt. Taking his stiffness for discomfort, Marguerite blushed noticeably (wondering if she had overstepped a boundary), and began to pull away, but before she could entirely pull away, Erik put his arms around her shoulders, pulling her back and returning her gesture. They stayed that way for a moment, before both pulling away, not uncomfortably this time. Marguerite looked up into his eyes then, asking if there was anything she could get him from…the surface, to help him. Once again moved, Erik told her that thank you, but there was nothing that he had not already tried. She sighed, and he could tell that she wished to help, but there was nothing she could do. "Marguerite," he said, and she looked up at him. "If you wish to do something from me, promise me that **_**you**_** will never pity me. Please."**

**By her eyes, he could tell that she had not expected such a request, but she would understand soon enough simply by knowing him. She agreed.**

**It was perhaps the night on which this all took place that officially sealed their bond, their friendship. Perhaps it was, perhaps it was in fact the very night they first met. Perhaps it was even her birth, or the first time he sung her to sleep when she was a newborn. Regardless, Erik would remember that night for years to come, perhaps even the rest of his life, and he felt that she would too.**

_People call him a monster, _Meg thought later on that night, thinking of how the others portrayed the Phantom, without even knowing him. _People don't know a damn thing._

~Later. Early autumn, 1869~

Meg gazed at herself in the mirror she shared with Christine and four other girls in the dormitory. Awake in an opera house where all others were fast asleep, she took the chance to fully scrutinize her new, fifteen year old self. It was her birthday. Meg squinted at her image in the glass. She stepped close to the mirror, then far away from it. She spun around, the hem of her nightdress flying out around her knees. She looked at her hands, clenching and unclenching her fists. No, it was plain to see. She did not look any different. A little taller, perhaps, than she had been a year ago; a bit more lithe and strong from another year of ballet, too. And true, her hair was longer, now falling around the middle of her ribcage, but no real noticeable differences.

Had Meg been looking through the eyes of another, she would have been able to see how it was these subtle differences that did in fact make her appear a mite older. But, in a good way.

She did not feel any older either. She did not feel one whit different then how she felt yesterday, when she was fourteen. Even though her mother had expressed to her how significant this birthday was, she just didn't see it. Her mother had told her how when one is fourteen, they are still just on the border between childhood and adolescence, and when they turn fifteen, they officially cross that border into young adulthood. Meg didn't feel like she had crossed any border whatsoever. Truthfully, she didn't mind. She enjoyed being the way she was, she didn't want to grow up too fast like some of the girls she knew. So, she was glad that she did not feel anything life altering.

She did however, feel a leather-clad hand cover her mouth and a strong arm snake itself across her arms around her waist, pulling her flush back against a body. Her first natural instinct was to scream, but when she looked in the mirror, she saw a white mask shining in the moonlight from the window, golden eyes laughing, and a smirking grin. Meg relaxed immediately, shoving the hand off and turning to face the Phantom. She opened her mouth to speak, but he covered her mouth with his hand again, nodding toward the sleeping girls around them. Meg nodded in understanding and allowed him to take her hand and lead her out the bedroom door, silent as a pair of drifting feathers. Wait, the bedroom door? As Meg watched him shut it behind them silently, she remembered that it had been firmly shut moments ago. Not only that, but the old wood door screeched loud enough to raise the dead when opened. How had he gotten in without making a sound? Meg shook her head, smirking. _Ghost, _she thought.

Erik grasped her hand again, running with her through a secret passageway down the hall a ways that led down a winding staircase to his cavern under the ground. Meg smiled as they ran, feeling free and light. The mysterious wind that not even Erik knew the origin of blew up the stairs against them, sending Meg's hair and the skirt of her nightgown flying back like flags atop the mast of a ship, making her feel as though she were flying. She suddenly let go of Erik's hand, running faster down the stairs. She glanced back at Erik as she ran, daring him to keep up. He was already beside her. The two raced each other, gathering speed unintentionally out of sheer momentum. Meg threw her arms out to her sides like wings as she ran, laughing a mirthful gasp knowing that they were far too low for anyone to hear. Erik chuckled at her side, holding his arms out merely for balance. As the two continued down the steps, their descent became less of a run and more of a controlled fall. Meg's feet began to touch the stone steps less and less until she nearly fell the rest of the way, but the Phantom's hand shot out protectively and grabbed her shoulder, keeping her steady until they reached the bottom, both jumping the last three steps. Meg laughed again before reaching out to attach herself to his waist in a hug. Erik stiffened for a moment, then hesitantly returned the embrace. He was still unaccustomed to much physical contact, but he was used to Meg, and didn't mind her sudden affectionate outbursts. Truth be known, he enjoyed them; appreciated them. She was the only one who ever touched him willingly, not out of pity or duty, or to cause harm. When they pulled away, he looked down at her. "Happy birthday, Marguerite."

"Thank you, Erik!" Meg said.

"Do you feel any older?"

"Not a bit."

Erik chuckled. "And I'm sure you're not bothered in the slightest. But come," he said, leading her through a hall into his cavern. "Your birthday present is waiting."

Meg raised her eyebrows. He had gotten her a present? "You didn't have to do that," she said.

"Ah, but I did. And I know that Antoinette taught you better manners then to refuse a gift," he replied, leaving no room for argument. "Now, please, close your eyes."

Meg closed them. Erik placed his hand on her shoulder and lead her forward across the cavern. Meg felt him step away from her. "Now, open!"

Meg opened her eyes. She looked around. She could not see anything different, just all the things that normally kept their places in his home. She looked at him questioningly.

"What?" he asked, looking around. "Oh, well, where did it go?" Meg smiled; he was teasing. "It was here a moment ago. I don't know where it could have gotten to…" He went and looked behind the piano. "Ah, here it is!" he said, reaching down behind the grand instrument. He righted himself, his arms closed around a medium sized ball of gray…fur.

"Oh!" Meg exclaimed, running up to him as he chuckled. Erik was holding a beautiful, smoke-gray cat, with short soft hair and bright eyes as golden as Erik's. The animal was just older then a kitten, lanky and lithe. It regarded Meg with an intelligent gaze. Meg looked up at Erik in disbelief. "For me?"

Erik nodded. "Yes, he's yours," he said, placing the cat in Meg's arms. Meg snuggled close to the creature, and it purred loudly.

"I don't believe it," she said, looking up at Erik with shining eyes. "Thank you so much, Erik. I love him."

"I am glad," he said, watching the girl and the cat become acquainted. "He has a name already. His name is Daroga."

"Daroga?" Meg repeated. "What a unique name. It's perfect!"

The two sat in silence for a few minutes. Meg played with her cat, Erik watched with a smile on his face, but it seemed frozen. His eyes danced with agitation. Meg noticed these things. "Erik?" He did not answer. "Erik?" Erik shook his head, as shaking out of a dream, or deep thoughts.

"Yes, Marguerite?"

"Is there something wrong?"

"No, ma petit oiseau. Why would anything be wrong?" he asked, but voice and face emotionless.

"You seem…troubled."

Erik didn't speak for a few moments. "Oh, no, it is nothing. Perhaps it is just the fact that I'm watching you grow up. You're a young lady now, Marguerite."

Meg blushed. "Oh, hardly."

"You've always been beyond your years, Marguerite. Even as a child, you were always so wise. Much more mentally, emotionally mature then the others around you. But now your appearance is beginning to match the years of your soul," he continued, ignoring her statement. "It is simply different for me. Mind you, it is not a bad thing." He took a lock of her hair in his hand and wound his fingers around it. "Have you finally won over your mother?" he asked, smiling.

Meg and her mother often argued about the length of her hair. Meg preferred it long, but her mother always wanted it to be cropped to her shoulders, so it would be easier to keep it out of the way when she danced. "She says that as long as I can keep it out of the way during ballet, and that I don't let it grow too long, I can keep it this way."

Erik let go of the lock of gold before standing back again. "Good; I've always liked your hair long."

Meg blushed for a moment, before remembering herself. "Erik, please do not change the subject." He looked at her innocently, raising his eyebrows. "What's really wrong?" she asked.

"I have told you, Marguerite."

"It was a lie."

"It was not."

"It's not what's really troubling you," she said.

He did not answer.

Meg knew there was something wrong with Erik, but she could not figure out what it was. And she desperately wanted to know, so she could make it better. Now, Meg cared so much, because Erik was like a brother to her. She truly cared about him, deeply, and she knew he felt the same way. But as Meg grew older, she sometimes has thoughts about him that were more than what a sister would think of a brother, but she always pushed these thoughts away. It would never be that way between them. It just wasn't how it was supposed to be. Besides, Erik didn't need a lover. He needed someone he could always count on, and that was Meg. It did not even bother her when he told her that he bad begun to teach Christine to sing, hiding behind the name of the Angel of Music (the way he sang, it wasn't hard to believe that he was). She was happy just the way they were, and she thought he was too, until one night shortly after Meg and Christine were sixteen, she came across a sketch of her best friend that Erik had tried to hide. It was then that she knew. Erik was in love with Christine.

~~Much Later. Erik had just laid an unconscious Christine onto his swan bed, pulling the black curtain down.~~

**Erik made a small sigh of happiness. His angel was down with him at last. He wouldn't have to hide behind his name of Angel of Music forever. Christine would eventually see him for who he really was, and he was certain that she would love him. He was still musing over these thoughts, gazing fondly over his sleeping angel, when he heard an angry whispered cry from behind him.**

"_**Erik!" **_**He turned around. It was Marguerite, and she looked angry indeed. She ran over to him from the entrance of a secret passage into his home that he had showed her. Now for the first time he wished that he hadn't. She might wake his angel…**

"_**Erik!" **_**she whisper-yelled again, taking him by the arm and dragging him a distance away from Christine so she could talk without waking her. "What have you done?" she exclaimed, her voice returning to normal volume. "You **_**kidnapped **_**Christine! Kidnapped her! Right after she gives the greatest performance Paris has ever seen, no less! What's more, right after the **_**viscount de Chagny **_**decides that he loves her! Don't give me that innocent look! **_**You knew!**_** What were you even thinking? Once he hears tell that she's disappeared, he'll tear Paris apart to find her! I know Raoul from what Christine tells me. He's a passionate man, extremely rash. He'll set every hound in France on her scent if he has to! Do you **_**want **_**to be killed?"**

**Erik scoffed. "I would like to see him try and kill m-…"**

"**Never mind! Don't even answer that!" she cut him off. She ran a hand through her hair, looking extremely distraught. She was afraid for him. She spoke again, her voice considerably calmer…**

"What were you even planning on doing when she woke up, Erik? Don't you think she would be frightened? Trapped underground with a man she doesn't even know?"

"Nonsense. She worships me."

"No, she worships the _Angel_, Erik. The Angel of Music."

"Who is to say that I am not the Angel of Music?" he countered.

"No one. Anyone with ears will swear on their life that you are, including me. But anyone with eyes can see that you are not."

"Oh yes, because no one with my face can be anything but a demon, is that it?" he retorted, tearing off his mask for emphasis. Meg did not even bat an eyelash. She did not care one way or the other about his deformity. After getting over the initial shock and pity after the first time she saw it when she was eleven, it had simply been a part of him, as natural as his voice.

"Do not even try to play that with me, Erik. You know how I feel about your face. I personally think YOU care too much about it. But that is not the point. What I meant was, anyone with eyes can see that you are _human._ And the minute you stop casting your spell, Christine will see it too, and _then _what will she think? She'll think that she has been taken by some madman!"

"So now I am a madman?"

"I never said that, but most men don't kidnap young girls!"

"She came with me willingly!"

"Because you've led her to believe that you're an angel sent to her by her dead father! She's been so happy ever since you came to her when we we're thirteen, all because she thought that her father had not truly left her after all! That he had sent her a guardian, a guide, a teacher! Can you imagine how devastated she will be when she finds out that you are no more a guardian angel then I am?"

That threw him off. He stared in silence for a few moments, before throwing up his hands and beginning to pace. "Oh, Marguerite, you are right! What shall I do? She would be devastated if she knew…" suddenly he stopped, turning to Meg. "Then that is it. She must not know."

Meg gaped at him. "What?"

"She must not know. Therefore she shall not. I will be her angel for as long as she needs it to be so. Then, eventually, should she realize that I am in fact human…well, she will have known me by then! She will have found the man behind the monster, just as I said. And she will…she will love me. I…I am sure of it."

Meg was about to protest, about to point out all the flaws in his plan, but there was such raw, naked hope on his face that she had never seen before. She just couldn't. She sighed. "Very well, Erik. Just…"

"What is it?" he asked.

"I was about to ask you to keep her safe," Meg answered. "But I know that if she is with you, she will be."

He smiled and embraced her, surprising her. "Marguerite," he murmured into her hair. "Do not worry. I shall make your sister the happiest woman on earth." Meg's heart felt an unusual, unpleasant pang when he said _Your sister. I will make _yoursister_ the happiest woman on earth. _She couldn't explain it, for she herself did not know what it was. But she ignored it, and embraced him back, still feeling a bit uneasy.

"I…I know you will." They pulled away simultaneously, and she saw such a hopeful smile on his face as he envisioned the future that Meg nearly cried. She honestly hoped that Christine would see who he really was, and love him. He would be so happy with her. Even Meg, bonded as she and Erik were, could never have brought such a smile of pure love like that to his face. She wanted so badly for him to have this. "Well," Meg continued. "I suppose I should leave now, and leave you two lovebirds alone," she teased. Erik smirked back, but Meg could tell that she really best leave. "I will see you later, Erik. Take care," she said, before leaving through the secret passage from whence she came.


	7. Alone

~~The next night~~

Meg flew down the passage to Erik's home. She was in a state of outrage. A stricken looking Christine had arrived at Meg's bedside in their dorm, tears streaming down her face, at one in the morning, needing to speak to her and Madame Giry very badly. She had told them how a masked man who she had thought to be the Angel of Music had taken her to beneath the opera house, but she had fainted shortly after. When she awoke, she removed his mask and he had gone into a fury, knocking her down and screaming at her to be damned. She also told them that once she saw behind his mask, she knew that he was not an angel, but a monster, none other than the Phantom of the Opera. Meg had wanted to shout that he was no monster, but she refrained. For some reason, Madame Giry did not want Christine to know that Meg knew the truth about the Opera Ghost. She had sent Meg away from the room so she could tell Christine the story, but Meg had listened from behind the door.

Now that the day had passed and it was once again night, she was going to see him, demanding how he could have said those things to her sister, how he could have struck her to the ground! She reached the cavern. "Erik!" she yelled, looking for him. He was once again at his piano, though he was not playing it. He was standing, facing it and staring at the keys, his hands clasped behind his back. Hearing her voice, his head twitched to the side for a moment, but he did not turn. She rushed across the cavern to his side, grasping his shoulder and turning him to face her. She began to shout "How could you?" but her voice broke off on "How". He looked devastated. He shed no tears, but the look in his eyes demanded them. "Marguerite," he whispered. "I…I've done a terrible wrong."

Meg let go of his shoulder, letting her hand slowly fall. "I have heard, Erik. Christine told me." At the mention of her name, Erik's eyes widened.

"How is she? Is she hurt?"

"No," Meg sighed. "She is fine, if not slightly shaken." Erik turned away. Meg tried to pull him back, but he shook his shoulder from his grasp, walking down the steps towards the water. He stopped at the water's edge, staring at its quivering surface. "I…acted out of anger. I did not mean to-…"

"Yes Erik, you did not mean to, but you did." Meg cut him off. His shoulders shook visibly. "But," she said tentatively, going to his side. "It…It might not be too late, you know. Christine was just…you just frightened her, is all. If you apologize, then maybe she would forgive you."

He whipped around to face her, grasping her by the shoulders. Meg looked into his eyes; there was that raw, naked hope again. Damn. She could never hurt him, never tell him harsh truths when he had that look in his eyes. "Marguerite," he said. "Do you really think so?" Meg opened her mouth to say yes, but Erik shook her once, before she could speak. "Do not lie to me, Marguerite."

Meg paused, thinking for one moment that she should tell him to move on, that deep down, Christine really loved Raoul no matter how much she was…enchanted, by Erik, but she could not bring herself to say these things. "Yes," she answered.

Erik smiled briefly, then began to look confused. "What should I do?" he asked. "Should I speak with her? Sing? Give her a…gift, or something else of the like?"

Meg's mind raced at top speed, trying to find the best course of action. Christine might still be too frightened at the moment to actually speak with Erik, level-headedly, at least. And at the moment, for him to sing to her made Meg think uncomfortably of hypnotism. But, a gift, even something small, might successfully bring across the message of his apology. Yes, that sounded like the best option, for the moment, at least. "Why don't you try leaving her a gift in her dressing room? Something to show your apology? One of your signature roses?"

Erik was silent for a moment, thinking it over. "Yes, perfect! I know just what I shall do! Marguerite, you are a treasure! Thank you!" And with that, he was gone.

_What have I done?_ thought Meg. "You're welcome, Erik," Meg said to the spot where he had disappeared from, her voice echoing around the empty cavern. _Erik, Erik, Erik, Erik…_

"Oh, shut up," Meg replied to the echoes, before stalking back up to her bedroom.

~~Later Still. A few hours before the production of Il Mutto~~

A gift, she had told him. Something small, a rose maybe, just enough to say he was sorry. But know, she was so stupid to have believed that he would do something small for Christine. Erik didn't do _small. _Meg was furious with herself. She knew Carlotta was about to be sabotaged so that Christine could play the Countess, and there was nothing she could do about it. Truthfully, she had no problem with Carlotta having a silent role for once, and normally she would be happy for Christine getting the lead role, but…it all felt wrong. She knew of Erik's plan to switch Carlotta's vocal spray with a concoction of his own creation, and it should have been like a mere childish prank. It even should have felt a little fun, with a good result. But Meg's present state of unease didn't lessen. Erik was more agitated lately. Whenever Meg saw him, he could not sit still. He was forever pacing, clasping and unclasping his hands, furiously writing music. When Meg spoke to him he responded, but in an absent-minded fashion. Once Meg asked him how he was, and he replied, "It's nearly five o'clock, Marguerite. Why do you ask?"

At the moment, Meg was down in the cavern with Erik, watching him pace and patiently listening as he ranted. "Can't those two ingrates ever listen to orders?" he said, exasperated. "Not only do they not know a single thing about the arts, apparently they are also illiterate. I made it perfectly clear that box 5 was to be kept empty for as it has been kept so for years, yet the again sell it to that…that…" He looked at Marguerite, apparently remembering that she was there. He exhaled. "Monsieur De Chagny," he finished. "The first time they made this mistake, I let it slide, for it was their first night as our new managers. But I believe I made it VERY clear…"He exhaled again. "But no matter. It shall all be taken care of tonight. They'll know to never disobey orders again."

"I beg your pardon?" Meg said.

"What do you mean?"

"What do _you _mean?" Meg said. "I doubt that giving Carlotta a case of laryngitis will give the managers much of a fright, Erik. La Carlotta _without _laryngitis is much more frightening," Meg joked half-heartedly, trying to make him smile. His dark tone of voice was making her nervous. What's more, he didn't answer.

Well, practically all of Paris knew what happened next.

~*The burning of the opera house. Erik and Christine have just fell down the trapdoor onstage*~

Meg, thanking the lord that the role she had just changed for was a trouser role, ran through the hazy smoke, away from the unbearable heat and the rushing mob of people. Christine! Erik! Raoul! She needed to find them! She needed to do something before anything (she shuddered as her vivid imagination listed various horrors befalling her sister and her fiancée) happened. As Meg ran through the labyrinth that was the opera house, an internal battle raged inside her. She was torn between the two halves of her heart, Christine and Erik. She was worried for her sisters safety, but she was partially mad at her as well, her loyalty to her bond-brother Erik nearly outshining her good sense. How could Christine be so cruel? To unmask him before nearly all of Paris! But Erik had been different this past while, sinister and not in his right mind. Christine had been frightened for not only her life but Raoul's as well; she might have felt that this was her only way out. But Erik! How crushed he must be! Betrayed by the woman he loved!

_But I cannot choose sides,_ she thought to herself, pushing her way through the mass of frenzied people. _I must find them before it's too late. _But Meg feared that too late would come too soon. The opera house could be hard to navigate even to those who had lived within its walls as long as Meg had (her whole life), but now, filled with masses of screaming people, running from the fire, and angry mobs, running _for _Erik, it began to be difficult to differentiate between right and left. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, she managed to distance herself from the mob and reach Erik's lair first. She looked around wildly, daring not to make a sound. The cavern was deserted. Meg ran, darting into each room, but not a soul was to be seen. But Meg was partly at ease. If Erik had wanted to keep Christine, they would still have been here, in the cavern, and Raoul's body would be in the lake. Fortunately, neither of these points proved true. Christine and Raoul were long gone, but what of Erik? Meg's heart raced in an unpleasant manner. Suddenly, she saw Erik's mask, lying on a table by his music box. Meg kneeled before the table, taking the mask in her hand. Tears filled her eyes. Erik would never leave his mask behind, unless… Hot tears slid down Meg's cheeks; she had by now stopped forbidding herself tears. Unless he had no use for it any longer. Meg gasped a sob, mourning for her lost guardian angel and friend; protector and brother. But wait, what was that noise?

_Track down this murderer he must be found, track down this murderer he must be found._

The mob! Meg leapt to her feet, holding on tightly to the mask.

_Track down this murderer he must be found, TRACK DOWN THIS MURDERER HE MUST BE FOUND!_

Looking around despairingly at the cavern once more, Meg fled the lair, using a passageway that Erik had used to escort her back to her dormitory many times. She could only hope it did not lead her into flames now. Meg emerged from the passage to find herself in a crowd of ballerinas like herself, all still in costume, not noticing her arrival. A man was speaking at the head of the crowd. Listening to the man, Meg learned that the fire had been contained to the theatre, and was being safely put out. No one had been severely injured or killed, and all cast were being ordered home while the staff straightened things out. For Meg, home was her dormitory. She entered the deserted, cold dorm room, and collapsed on her bed in a daze, trying to fully absorb all that had happened. _Erik, _her mind moaned in anguish. _Erik, Erik, Erik. _She would never see his tentative smile, his knowing smirk; she would never hear his angel's voice; never feel his arms hesitantly around her in an embrace, as if still nervous on if he was doing it properly; she would never have any of these things, all that was Erik, ever again. Her friend-deemed brother was gone. All she had left of him was the white porcelain mask in her hand. Meg clutched it to her chest, her eyes burning with salty tears of grief, when she heard a soft meow.

Looking over the edge of her bed, Meg saw her smoke gray cat, Daroga, looking up at her with what one could only call concern. With a relieved moan, Meg hid the mask safely in her bedside table and took the lanky feline into her arms and held him close, letting the vibrating sound of his purring sooth her, eventually, lulling her directly into a deep, but fitful sleep.

Meg woke the next morning, but did not get up. She went back to sleep. She woke the next afternoon to a stormy sky outside her window. Gray clouds unleashed torrents of rain onto the city. Not entirely aware of her actions, she washed her face, brushed her hair and tied it back, staring into space. She changed into a simple blue-gray dress, long sleeves and thick fabric blocking out the chill, went out into the halls, looking for her mother. Meg needed her, and no doubt she needed Meg.

"Maman," she called. "Maman!"

Going about in this fashion until the evening, she was suddenly stopped by a man in a black suit. Meg recognized him as the man from last night.

"Are you Marguerite Giry?" he asked. His voice was soft, but abrupt and business-like. Meg noticed that he was carrying a large black bag, its contents tinkling when he moved it.

"Yes," Meg replied. "And you, monsieur?"

"Dr. Claude Charmin, mademoiselle. I am afraid I have some unfortunate news."

Meg looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to speak.

"Madame Giry, she is your mother, is she not?" Meg nodded. "I regret to inform you that your mother passed away early this morning, mademoiselle. We did everything we could, but she inhaled too much smoke during the fire. I am very sorry." Suddenly, another voice called for the doctor down the hall. "You must excuse me, Miss Giry, but I have other patients. I am very sorry for your loss. I suggest you return home to your father and family, and tell them what has happened." And with a short bow, Dr. Charmin retreated down the hall, disappearing through a door. Meg stood there, stunned. It couldn't be; it could not be true. First her father, then Christine, then Erik, and now her mother? Surely fate could not be this cruel. But Meg knew it to be real. She had lost everyone she held dear, and she had nowhere to go. All the loss weighed down on Meg with a crushing force. The doctor had told her to go home, to go to her family. Little did he know that she now had no family to go to, and no place to call home other then the opera house. Besides Daroga, she was truly alone. And her mother, her only blood family for practically her whole life, was gone. Forever. Meg tried to fully grasp it. Her mother was dead. She would no longer teach Meg and the others ballet, never be the driving force behind another production, never call for Meg, never…never anything.

Meg thought all these thoughts in utter misery as she climbed the stairs back up to her room, lying down on her bed with Daroga at her side.

_First her father, then Christine, then Erik, and now her mother. _Fate truly was crueller then Meg could have ever imagined.


	8. The Steps of Notre Dame

Meg did very little for the following three days. She slept, cuddled with Daroga, washed herself and brushed her hair frequently, just so she could keep her agitated hands occupied. She did nothing besides that. She did not even eat. The most she had eaten was a single apple that she had found in the kitchens as she was wandering one morning. The opera house, for the moment, had been completely abandoned, and Meg was alone in the dark and silence, the only sounds being an occasional meow from Daroga, and the voices in Meg's mind. No, she was not crazy, she was not hearing voices speaking to her. Though the voices spoke to her, personally, they were things that had been said before. Meg was hearing her memories. As she lay on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, her loved ones spoke to her, whispers from the past.

She was in her mother's arms, her mother telling her that she was proud of her.

In her mind's eye, she saw her nine year old self with Christine, underneath the blanket of the very bed Meg was lying on now, whispering and giggling, trying not to wake those around them. The clock on the wall struck twelve.

Erik lead a thirteen year old version of herself down a dark corridor, holding on to her forearm so she would not fall. He could see in the dark, she could not. They had been walking, but now they were running.

_Hurry, Marguerite! _He urged. _We are late!_

_Late for what? _She had asked.

_The music, Marguerite, the music! A new piece of music just graced my thoughts, and we must get back to my organ and write it down before it escapes! It will not wait for us, Marguerite, so we must hurry!_

And there was her father, his features slightly fuzzy, but his blue eyes and voice clear as day. _I love you, daughter._

And then there were the screams. Screams of hundreds of people in frightened panic, running away from the flames. As Meg watched in horror, unable to move, the crowd rushed by her until she was alone with the steadily advancing flames. Suddenly, there were more screams; screams coming from inside the flames. Meg blanched. There were people in the fire! Suddenly her horror grew. She recognized the screams, five distinct voices that she knew so well. _Erik, Maman, Christine, Raoul, and her father! _

"_NO!" _Meg screamed, as she ran toward the flames. Her family was burning! She had to save them! Then there was a loud groaning of wood, and within seconds Meg found herself unable to move, a fallen beam pinning her waist to the ground. Meg struggled beneath the weight of the beam, trying in vain to break free.

"MEG! MARGUERITE! DAUGHTER!" the different voices screamed in agony. This was the last thing she heard before the flames consumed her.

…

Meg woke up in a cold sweat, shooting up into a sitting position with a gasp. It was the middle of the night. She looked about the room in alarm, the terror of her dream still clutching her in its frozen grasp. Daroga meowed in concern. Meg hugged him absently before getting out of bed. She had to leave. She could no longer stay here in the empty opera house, silent and cold except for the phantom flames and the echoes of screams. She would not, could not come back, at least until it was repaired, and it's normal pattern of life and art was restored. Not until every trace of the tragedy that had occurred had been eradicated.

Mechanically, Meg took off her dress that she had been wearing for days and put it into a cloth sack with a shoulder strap. She walked about her room in her chemise, putting a few other dresses, some underwear, a pair of shoes, her hairbrush and a few hair ties into the bag. She looked out the window. It was raining again; harder than before. If she was going to be running away, and not even knowing where she was going, she ought to wear something sturdy. She took an old dress, a light brown one that was now too short for her, and tore off the skirt. She put the shirt on, pulling away a few of the longer threads, and then dressed herself in the black trousers from her costume from the second half of _Don Juan Triumphant_, putting the matching black boots on last. Feeling much more stable in her trousers, Meg opened her pack, and Daroga hopped in. Meg had often taken the gray feline with her whenever she went into town in this fashion, and he was always comfortable enough. She took the Phantom's mask in her hand, holding it tightly, and was about to leave when she turned back around, going to her bedside table. Opening the drawer, she took out a small cloth sack, retrieving from it a silver chain with a small dove, hand carved from wood, dangling on it. It was the necklace Erik had made for her all those years ago. Meg put the necklace on, walked down the halls and stairs, and left the opera house.

It was raining harder then she had thought. Fat, frigid drops fell relentlessly from the thundering sky. Hitching the strap of her bag securely across her shoulders, Meg began to run. Where was she going? She didn't know. Did she care? Not a whit. The only things in her mind were getting far away from the opera house, and getting Daroga out of the rain…and finding something, some place, anything, to get her hope back. She felt glad that her years of ballet had made her so strong, and she used every bit of that strength, running for quite some time. She knew not where she was going; she didn't bother to look anywhere or at anything except the wet cobblestones beneath her feet. She was lucky that there was no traffic on a miserable night like this, or she would have surely been injured. So absorbed was she in merely running, that she did not stop until a sudden step threw her off balance, sending her tumbling down, landing on more upward stairs. She would be bruised from the fall, but if there was pain, she didn't feel it. She was trying to tell where she was. Looking up, she saw that the stairs led to a large building, but in the black of the night, she couldn't tell anything more. Meg was trying to adjust her eyes to the darkness when a bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating for a split second where she was. She was on the steps of Notre Dame.

Meg gasped before running up the steps to the door. Growing up, her mother had raised her Catholic, but she had also made a point of never pressing their beliefs on others, so Meg wore her faith quietly, strong as it was. Perhaps fate had brought her here, to the most holy place in all of Paris, so she could have something to hold on to again. It wasn't much, but it was something. Here she could find shelter, hope, and pray for her mother and Erik and her father, and wish Christine and Raoul a happy life together, and…

Meg shivered violently. By now she was soaked clean through, and the cold rain was not letting up. If anything it was becoming more forceful. Daroga meowed indignantly from inside her pack. Meg reached out tentatively and knocked on the door. "Hello?"

No answer. Meg raised her voice slightly. "Hello? I am sorry, that it's so late, but I'm in need of sanctuary, please? Please?"

No answer. Meg reached for the door handle and pulled. The door was locked. _Damn it, _Meg thought. _What now? _Suddenly, Meg's legs felt to be made of lead. Turning her back to the door and taking her pack in her arms against her chest, she leaned against the ancient wood and slid down to the ground, not noticing that she was now sitting on the wet stone ground, she was so wet already. Daroga meowed and pushed his head up through the flap of the sack. Meg reached out and scratched him behind his ears and exhaustion. Black spots danced before her eyes, clouding her vision. Meg rubbed her eyes, trying to bat the spots away, but they only grew and spread until all she could see was nothing at all. It was then that her eyes fell shut, and her limp, tired body fell to the side, laying down in the dark and pouring rain.

_**Oh, wonderful, **_**The watcher in the shadows of the bell towers thought, seeing the slim, petite blonde collapse to the ground. He had been looking out into the night when he saw a strange figure, a young girl it seemed, in men's clothing, running to the church. **_**The wench must have fainted. Ah well, **_**he thought, shrugging his shoulders, turning away from the window. **_**The archdeacon will no doubt find her in the morning.**_

_Really, have some compassion, man! _**what the watcher could only call his conscience scolded. **

_**And whatever for? The world showed no compassion to me.**_

_SHE did. Christine, near the end. What of that kiss, eh?_

_**It meant nothing. It was to save her lover's skin and nothing more. Don't you dare bring it up again.**_

_But you let them go, regardless._

_**Never mind. What does this have to do with the girl?**_

_Nothing, I suppose. But now that you've brought her up again, are you really going to leave her there? _

_**Absolutely. She'll be fine, as I said, the archdeacon will find her in the morning.**_

_But there are still many hours yet before dawn, and this rain, this cold, she's certain to catch her death of something._

**The watcher hesitated. A vague twitch of pity struck his heart, but he was still furious with the world, resenting the very human race. **_**It's her own fault, being out in the rain like this. She should have gone home.**_

_Look at her, _**the voice said. He went to the window, looking down on the unconscious girl far below. As good as his eyes were, within the flashes of lightning he could not distinguish her features, but he could tell that she did not look well. She was rail thin, and looked…neglected. Her skin was paler then would be deemed healthy, as if she hadn't seen the sun for days, and then of course, was her curious, albeit questionable, apparel. Ripped and frayed, and were those scorch marks? Yes, they were.**

_Look at her, _**the voice repeated. **_Does she look like someone who has a home to go to? Someone who has people who care for her; who would be looking for her if she were gone? She's alone, Erik, just like you. _

**The twitch of pity was now accompanied with empathy, growing slowly more pronounced by the minute. Shaking his head, Erik looked away from the poor wretch. **_**She is not my concern.**_

_Then whose concern is she? _**There was a pause. **_It's not as if you have to adopt the poor creature. Just take her in for the night, get her warm, and hand her over to the archdeacon tomorrow. You know you don't really have it in you to leave her there._

_**Oh I don't, do I?**_

_No. So why are you still standing here?_

**Sighing, and wondering how on earth a person such as he could possibly have such a strong sense of honour, Erik hoped out the window and onto a gargoyle, from there to a stone pillar, from there to the ground. He could see her prone form, a black shadow on the ground, a few paces away. He went to her. **

"**Mademoiselle," he whispered, shaking her gently. She did not wake. Swinging her shoulder bag over his own shoulders (becoming slightly confused when it meowed) he took a knife from his pocket and unlocked the door before gently swinging the girl into his arms and carrying her into the warm, dark, incense-filled Notre Dame, filled with somehow comfortable shadows. In the dark, Erik climbed a few staircases, higher and higher, then a few more, somewhat secret steps into one of the two rooms he had claimed as his own, one where he was now, nearly the top of the bell tower, and another in the very top of the bell tower. It was extremely convenient and private. No one ever came up this high. He laid her on his cot in the corner, and lit a few candles for light before turning back to face the girl. He dropped the match. No. No, no, no! It couldn't be! **

**Yet it was. Marguerite Giry.**

**Erik's heart swelled with many contrasting emotions. Elation, rage, relief, fear, and countless others. On the one hand, he was thrilled to know that she was safe, that she was **_**here, **_**with him, just as she always used to be. On the other hand, what was she doing here, running away like this? Marguerite had more sense than to be out in such a storm, than to run away! On yet another hand, he was frantic, and frightened. No, she couldn't be here. As much as he wanted her to stay, she couldn't be around him anymore. It wasn't safe for her. He didn't trust himself anymore. He had always had a slow temper when he was around her, but now… One slip of the tongue, one action on her part that would anger him could end with her lifeless body on the floor. He couldn't do that, it would kill him. But he wanted her to stay with him. Marguerite, his little bird had always been a grounding, calming, even changing force for him. She had always calmed him, kept him sane, kept him human, when no one else could. But scarcely more than a week ago that had changed (because of his own actions), and he had been lost in a sea of insanity, self hate and loathing ever since. He had become a dark person, a monster just as he always suspected, and he did not want that to happen. But was he selfish enough to endanger her life in exchange for his sanity? He didn't trust himself enough to even make **_**that**_** decision, so he didn't give himself the time. He had to get her to leave. Tomorrow.**

_My dear readers,_

_I'm sorry that this chapter was so short, but I simply had to let you know that the previous chapter was not the end for poor Meg! More is coming, rest assured. Until then, I bid you goodbye!_

_Sincerely,_

_Pixie_


End file.
